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V, 


THE 


TEMPERANCE TALES 


LUCIUS M. SARGENT. 


Cum vini vis penelraviL 
Consequilur gravitas membrorum, prsepediuntur 
Crura vaccillanti, tardescit lingua, madel mens. 

Nant oculi, clamor, singultus, jurgia gliscunl. 

Lucretius, Lib. iii. Ver. 476 


NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 

TWO VOLS. IN ONE. 

) ) ) J ) 


SPRINGFIELD, MASS.: 

W. J. HOLLAND & CO. 

1873. 





'c>\ . 


Entered acccrdin?/ to Act of Congress, in the yeai 1347, fay 
WILLIAM S. DAMRELL, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 


4 4 .©# © 

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I 

PUBLISHER’S PREFACE 


In presenting a comprehensive edition .of the ‘‘ Temper- 
ance Tales ” to the public, the publisher complies with the 
request of many highly respected friends of the temperance 
cause. These tales were prepared for the purpose of doing 
good ; and it has been sufficiently acknowledged, that they 
have accomplished their object, in no ordinary degree. Hun- 
dreds of thousands have already been scattered over the 
earth. Editions have been published in England and Scot- 
land, and several of these tales have been translated into the 
German language. Editions have also been printed at 
Botany Bay, and at Madras, in South India. The perusal of 
some one of these narratives is well known to have turned 
the hearts of many persons of intemperate habits, from 
drunkenness and sloth, to temperance and industry. Many 
years have passed since their first publication, in separate 
numbers. It may not be uninteresting to the children of 
parents, once intemperate, to cast their eyes upon those 
pages, whose influence, under the blessing of Heaven, has 
preserved them from a miserable orphanage. The publisher 
confidently hopes that the circulation of the Temperance 
Tales will greatly tend, as it ever has done, to the advance- 
ment of the reformation. 


W. S. B. 


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MY MOTHERS GOLD RING. 


Tbu is thj first of a senes of stories, of which it possibly may be the beginning and the ni. 
The inciden'., which is the foundation of the followin' tale, was communicated to the writer, by a 
▼alued frieivi, as a fact, with the name of the principal character. Another friend, to whom the 
manuscript was ?iven, perceivin' some advanta'e in its publication^ has thou'hl proper to give it 
to the world, as Number One ; from which I infer, that I am expected to write a Number Two. The 
hint may be worth taking, at some leisure moment. In the mean Sime, pray read Number One : it 
can do you no harm ; there is nothing “ sectarian” about it. When you have read it, if, among all 
your connections and friends, you can think of none, whom its perusal may possibly benefit — and it 
will be stranire if you cannot — do me the favor to present it to the first little boy that you meet. He 
will, no doubt, lake it home to his mother or his father. If you will not do this, throw it in the 
street, as near to some dram-seller's door as you ever venture to go : let it take the course of the' 
flyin' seed, which God is pleased to intrust to the keeping of the winds t it may yet tpriag up 
and bear fruit, if such be the will of Him, who giveth the increase. 


I HAVE one of the kindest husbands : he is a carpenter by trade, and 
our flock of little children has one of the kindest fathers in the 
county. I was thought the luckiest girl in the parish, when 
G T made me his wife : I thought so myself. Our wed- 

ding-day — and it was a happy one — was but an indifferent sample 
of those days of rational happiness and uninterrupted harmony, 
which we were permitted to enjoy together, for the space of six 
years. And although, for the last three years of our lives, we have 
been as happy as we were at the beginning, it makes my heart sick 
to think of those long, dark days and sad nights, that came between ; 
* for, two years of our union were years of misery. I well recollect 
the first glass of ardent spirit, that my husband ever drank. He had 
been at the grocery to purchase a little tea and sugar for the family ; 
there were three cents coming to him in change ; and, unluckily, 
the Deacon, who keeps the shop, had nothing but silver in the till ; 
and, as it was a sharp, frosty morning, he persuaded my good man 
to take his money’s worth of rum, for it was just the price of a glass 
He came home in wonderful spirits, and told me he meant to have 
me and the children better dressed, and, as neighbor Barton talked 
of selling his horse and chaise, he thought of buying them both ; 
and, when I said to him, “ George, we are dressed as well as we 
can afford, and I hope you will not think of a horse and chaise, till 
we have paid off the Squire’s mortgage,” he gave me a harsh look 
and a bitter word I never shall forget that day, for they were the 
first he ever gave me in his life. When he saw me shedding tears, 
and holding my apron to my face, he said he was sorry, and came 

VOL. 1 1* 


6 


MY J> OTHER’S GOLD RING. 


to kiss me, and I discovered that he had been drinking, and h 
grieved me to tiie heart. In a short time after, while I was wash- 
ing up the breakfast tilings, I heard our little Robert, who was only 
five years old, crying bitterly ; and, going to le?/n the cause, 1 met 
him running towards me with his face covered with blood. 

He said his father had taken him on his knee, and was playing 
M’ith him, but had given him a blow in the face, only because he 
had said, when he kissed him, Dear papa, you smell like old 
Isaac, the drunken fiddler.” My husband was very cross to us all 
through the whole of that day ; but the next morning, though he 
said little, he was evidently ashamed and humbled; and he went 
about his work very industriously, and was particularly kind to little 
Robert. I prayed constantly for my good man, and that God w ould 
be pleased to guide his heart aright ; and, more than a week having 
gone by, without any similar occurrence, 1 flattered myself, that he 
would never do so again. But, in a very little time, either the 
Deacon was short of change, as before, or some tempting occasion 
presented itself, which my husband could not resist, and he returned 
liorne once more under the influence of liquor. I never shall forget 
the expression of his countenance, when he came in, that night. We 
nad w^aited supper a full hour, for his return ; the tea-pot was stand- 
ing at the fire, and the bannocks w'ere untouched upon the hearth, 
and the smaller children were beginning to murmur for their supper. 
There was an indescribable expression of defiance on his counte- 
nance, as though he were conscious of having done wrong, and 
resolved to brave it out. We sat down silently to supper, and he 
scarcely raised his eyes upon any of us, during this unhappy repast. 
He soon went to bed and fell asleep ; and, after I had laid our little 
ones to rest, I knelt at the foot of the bed, on which my poor mis- 
guided husband was sleeping, and poured out my very soul to God, 
while my eyes were scalded with the bitterest tears I had ever shed. 
For I then foresaw, that, unless some remedy could be employed, 
my best earthly friend, the father of my little children, wmuld 
become a drunkard. The next morning, after breakfast, I ventured 
to speak with him upon the subject, in a mild way ; and, though I 
could not restrain my tears, neither my words nor my weeping 
appeared to have any effect, and I saw that he was becoming hard- 
ened, and careless of us all. How many winter nights have I 
waited, wetping alone, at my once happy fireside, hstening for the 
lifting latch, and wishing, yet dreading, to hear his steps at the door ; 

After this state of things had continued, or rather grown worse 
for nearly three months, I put on my bonnet one morning, after ni) 
husband had gone to his work, and went to the Deacon’s store ; and 


MY MOTHER’S GOLD RINa 


7 


finding him alone, I stated my husband’s case, and begged him earn 
■estly to sell him no more. He told me t would do no good, for, il 
he did not sell it, some other person would sell it ; and he doubted if 
my husband took more than was good for him. He quoted Scrip- 
ture to show, that it was a wife’s duty to keep at home, and submit 
herself to her husband, and not meddle with things, which did noi 
belong to her province. At this time, two or three customers called 
for rum, and the Deacon civilly advised me to go home, and look 
after my children. 

I went out with a heavy heart. It seemed as if the tide of evil 
was setting against me. As I was passing farmer Johnson’s, on my 
way home, they called me in. I sat down and rested myself, foi 
a few minutes, in their neat cottage. Farmer John.son was just 
returning from the field ; and when I saw the little ones running to 
meet him at the stile, and the kind looks, that passed between the 
good man and his wife ; and when I remembered, that we were mar- 
ried on the very same day, and compared my own fortune with 
theirs, my poor heart burst forth in a flood of tears. They all knew 
what I was weeping for, and farmer Johnson, in a kind manner, 
bade me cheer up, and put my trust in God’s mercy, and remember 
that it was often darkest before daylight. The farmer and his wife 
were members of the temperance society, and had signed the pledge ; 
and I had often heard him say, that he believed it had saved him 
from destruction. He had, before his marriage, and for a year after, 
been in the habit of taking a little spirit every day. He was ar 
industrious, thriving man ; but, shortly after his marriage, he became 
bound for a neighbor, who ran off, and he was obliged to pay the 
debt. I have heard him declare, that, when the sheriff took away 
all his property, and stripped his little cottage, and scarcely left him 
those Uifles, which are secured to the poor man by law ; and when 
he considered how ill his poor wife was, at the time, in consequence 
of the loss of their child, that died only a month before, he waf 
restrained from resorting to the bottle, in his moments of despair, by 
nothing but a recollection of the pledge he had signed. Farmer 
Johnson’s minister was in favor of pledges, and had often told him, 
that affliction might weaken his judgment and his moral sense, and 
that the pledge might save him at last, as a plank saves the life of 
a mariner, who is tost upon the waves. 

Our good Clerg)niian was unfortunately of a different opinion. 
He had often disapproved of pledges ; the Deacon was of the same 
opinion : he thought very illy of pledges. 

Month after month passed away, and our happiness was utteily 
destioyed. My husband neglected his business, and poverty began 


g 


MY MOTHER’S GOLD RING. 


to stare us in the face. Notwithstanding- my best exertions., it wai 
hard work to keep my little ones decently clothed and sufficiently fed. 
If my husband earned a shilling, the dram-seller was as sure of it, 
as if it were already in hxS till. I sometimes thought I nad lost aiJ 
rny affection for one, who had proved so entirely regardless of those, 
whom it was his duty to protect and sustain ; but, when 1 looked in 
the faces of our little children, the recollection of our early marriage 
days, and all his kind words and deeds, soon taught me the strength 
of the principle, that had brought us together. I shall never cease 
to remember the anguish 1 felt, when the constable look him to jail, 
upon the dram-seller’s execution. Till that moment, 1 did not 
believe, that my affection could have survived, under the pressure of 
that misery, which he had brought upon us all. I put up such 
things, of the little that remained to us, as I thought might be of use, 
and turned iny back upon a spot where 1 had been very happy and 
very wretched. Our five little children followed, weeping bitterly. 
The jail was situated in the next town. “ Oh George,” said I, 
“ if you had only signed the pledge, it would not have come to 
this.” He sighed, and said nothing ; and we walked nearly a mile, 
in perfect silence. As we were leaving the village, we encountered 
our Clergyman, going forth upon his morning ride. When I refiect 
ed, that a few words froim him would have induced my poor husband 
to sign the pledge, and that, if he had done so, he might have been 
the kind father and the affectionate husband that he once was, 1 
own, it cost me some considerable effort to suppress my emotions. 
“ Whither are you all going?” said the holy man. My husband, 
who had always appeared extremely humble, in presence of the 
minister, and replied to all his inquiries, in a subdued tone of voice, 
answered, with unusual firmness, “ To jail, reverend sir.” “To 
jail !” said he ; “ ah, I see how it is ; you have wasted your sub- 
stance in riotous living, and are going to pay for your improvi 
dence and folly. You have had the advantage of my precept and 
example, and you have turned a deaf ear to the one, and neglected 
the other.” “ Reverend sir,” my husband replied, galled by this 
reproof, which appeared to him, at that particular moment, an un- 
necessary aggravation of his misery, “ reverend sir, your precept 
and your example have been my ruin ; I have followed them both. 
You, who had no experience of the temptations, to which your 
weaker brethren are liable, who are already addicted to the temper- 
ate and daily use of ardent spirits, advised me never to sign a pledge 
I have followed your advice to the letter. You admitted, that ex- 
ttaordinary occasions might justify the use of ardent spirit, and that, 
» «uch occasions, yo i might use it yourself. I followed your ex 


MY MOTHER'S GOLD RING. 


9 


ample ; but it has been my misfortune never to drink spirituous 
liquors, without finding that my occasions were more extraordinary 
than ever. Had 1 followp'^ the precept and example pf my neigh- 
bor Johnson, I should not have made a good wife miserable, nor 
my children beggars.” While he uttered these last words, my poor 
husband looked upon his little ones, and burst into tears ; and the 
minister rode slowly away, without uttering a word. I rejoiced, 
even in the midst of our misery, to see that the heart of mv pooi 
George was tenderly affected ; for it is not more needful that the 
hardness of wax should be subdued by fire, than that the hear of 
man should be softened by affliction, before a deep and lasting im 
pression can be made. “ Dear husband,” said I, “ we are young ; 
it is not too late; let us trust in God, and all may yet be well.” 
He made no reply, but continued to walk on, and weep in silence. 
Shortly after, the Deacon appeared, at some distance, coming towards 
us on the road ; but, as soon as he discovered who we were, he 
turned away into a private path. Even the constable seemed some- 
what touched with compassion at our situation, and urged us to keep 
up a good heart, for he thought some one might help us, when we 
least expected it. My husband, whose vein of humor would often 
display itself, even in hours of sadness, instantly replied, that the 
good Samaritan could not be far off, for the priest and the Levite 
had already passed by on the other side. But he little thought - 
poor man — that even the conclusion of this beautiful parable was so 
likely to be verified. A one-horse wagon, at this moment, appeared 
to be coming down the hill behind us, at an unusually rapid rate, 
and the constable advised us, as the road was narrow, to stand aside, 
and let it pass. It was soon up with us ; and, when the dust had 
cleared away, it turned out, as little Robert had said, when it first 
appeared on the top of the hill, to be farmer Johnson’s gray mare 
and yellow wagon. The kind-hearted farmer was out in an 
instant, and, without saying a word, was putting the children into 
it, one after another. A word from farmer Johnson was enough for 
any constable in the village. It was all the work of a moment. 
He shook my husband by the hand ; and when he began, “ Neigh- 
bor Johnson, you are the same kind friend” — “ Get in,” said he; 
“ let ’s have no words about it. I must be home in a trice, for,’ 
turning to me, “ your old school-mate, Susan, my wife, will sit a 
crying at the window, till she sees you all safe home again.” Saying 
this, he whipped up the gray mare, who, regardless of the additional 
load, went up the hill faster than she came down, as though she 
entered into the spirit of the whole transaction. 

It was not .ong before we reached the door of our cottage.- Far 


10 


MY MOTHERS GOLD RING. 


met Johnson took out the children ; and, while I WdS trying to find 
•vords to thank him for all his kindness, he wts up in his wagon 
and off, before 1 could utter a syllable. Robert screamed after him, 
to tell little Tim Johnson to come over, and that he should have all 
his pinks and marigolds. When we entered the cottage, there 
were bread, and meat, and milk, upon the table, which Susan, the 
farmer’s wife, had brought over for t^e children. I could not help 
sobbing aloud, for my heart was full. “ Dear George, ’ said I, 
turning to my husband, “ you used to pray , 'et us thank God, for 
this great deliverance from evil.” “Dear Jenny,” said he, “1 
fear God will scarcely listen to my poor prayers, after all my 
offences ; but I will try.” We closed the cottage door, and no prayed 
with so much humility of heart, and so much earnestness of feeling, 
that I felt almost sure that God’s grace would be lighted up, in the 
bosom of this unhappy man, if sighs, and tears, and prayers, could 
win their way to heaven. He was very grave, and said little or 
nothing that night. The next morning, when I woke up, I was sur- 
prised, as the sun had not risen, to find that he had already gone 
down. At first, I felt alarmed, as such a thing had become unusual 
with him, of late years; but my anxious feelings were agreeably 
relieved, when the children told me their father had been hoeing, for 
an hour, in the potato field, and was mending the garden fence. 
With our scanty materials, I got ready the best breakfast I could, 
and he sat down to it, with a good appetite, but said little ; and, 
now and then, I saw the tears starting into his eyes. I had many 
fears, that he would fall back into his former habits, whenever he 
should meet his old companions, or stop in again at the Deacon’s 
store. I was about urging him to move into another village. After 
breakfast, he took me aside, and asked me if I had not a gold ring. 
“ George,” said I, “ that ring was my mother’s : she took it from 
her finger, and gave it to me, the day that she died. I would not 
part with that ring, unless it were to save life. Besides, if we are 
industrious and honest, we shall not be forsaken.” “ Dear Jenny,” 
said he, “ I know how you prize that gold ring ; I never loved you 
more than when you wept over it, while you first told me the story 
of your mother s death : it was just a month before we w'ere married, 
the last Sabbath evening in May, Jenny, and w^e were walking by 
the river. I wish you would bring me that ring.” Memory hur- 
ried me back, in an instant, to the scene, the bank upon the river’s 
side, where we sat together, and agreed upon our wedding-day. 
I brought down the ring, and he asked me, with such an earnest- 
ness of manner, to pul it on his little finger, that I d d sc ; not, 
however, without a trembling hand and a misgiving heart. “ And 



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/ 






. 4 ^ 













MY mothi-:r»s gold ring. 


11 


now. Jenny,” said he, as he rose to go out, pray that God will 
support me,” My mind was not in a happy state, for I felt some 
doubt of his intentions. From a little hill, at the back of our cot- 
tage, we had a fair view of the Deacon’s store. I went up to the 
top of it ; and while I watched my husband ’s steps, no one can tell 
how fervently I prayed God to guide them aright. I saw two of his 
old companions, standing at the store door, with glasses in their 
hands ; and, as my husband came in front of the shop, I saw them 
beckon him in. It was a sad moment for me. “ Oh, George,” 
said I, though I knew he could not hear me, “ go on; remember 
your poor wife ard your starving childr3n !” My heart sunk within 
me, when 1 saw him stop and turn tjwards the door. He shook 
hands with his old associates: they appeared to offer him their 
glasses : I saw him shake his head and pass on. “ Thank God !” 
said I, and ran down the hill, with a light step, and seizing my baby 
at the cottage door, I literally covered it with kisses, and bathed it 
in tears of joy. About ten o’clock, Richard Lane, the Squire’s office- 
boy. brought in a piece of meat and some meal, saying my husband 
sent word, that he could not be home till night, as he was at work 
on the Squire's barn. Richard added, that the Squire had engaged 
him for two months. He came home early, and the children ran 
down the hill to meet him. He was grave, but cheerful. “ I have 
prayed for you, dear husband,” said 1. “ And a merciful God has 

supported me, Jenny,” said he. It is not easy to measure the 
degrees of happiness ; but, take it altogether, this, I think, was the 
happiest evening of my life. If there is great joy in heaven over a 
sinner that repenteth, there is no less joy in the heart of a faithful 
wife, over a husband that w'as lost, and is found. In this manner the 
two mouths went away. In addition to his common labor, he found 
time to cultivate the garden, and make and mend a variety of useful 
articles about the house. It was soon understood, that my husband 
had reformed, and it was more generally believed, because he was a 
subject for the gibes and sneers of a large number of the Deacon’s 
customers. My husband used to say. Let those laugh that are wdse 
and win. He was an excellent workman, and business came in 
from all quarters He was soon able to repay neighbor Johnson, 
and our families lived in the closest friendship with each other 
One evening, farmer Johnson said to my husband, that he thought 
it would be well for him to sign the tempe...nce pledge ; that he did 
not advise it, when he first began to leave off spirit, for he feared 
his strength might fail him. “ But now,” said he, “ >ou have con 
tinned five months, without touching a drop, and it would be well 
for the cause, that you should sign the pledge.” “ Friend John 


12 , 


MY MOTHER’S GOLD RING. 


Bpn,” said my husband, “ when a year has gone safely by, I will 
sign the pledge. For five months, instead of the pledge, I have, in 
every trial and temptation — and a drinking man knows well the 
force and meaning of those words — I have relied upon this gold ring, 
to renew my strength, and remind me of my duty to God, to my 
wife, to ' my children, and to society. Whenever the struggle of 
appetite has commenced, I have looked upon this ring : I have re- 
membered that it was given, with the last words and dying counsels 
of an excellent mother, to my wife, who placed it there ; and, under 
the blessing of Almighty God, it has proved, thus far, the life-boat 
of a drowning man.” 

The year soon passed away, and on the very day twelvemonth, 
on which I had put the ring’ upon my husband’s finger, farmer 
Johnson brought over the Temperance book. We all sat down to 
the tea-table together. After supper was done, little Robert climbed 
up and kissed his father, and, turning to farmer Johnson, “ Father,” 
said he, “ has not smelt like old Isaac, the drunken fiddler, once, 
since we rode home in your yellow wagon.” The farmer opened 
the book: my husband signed the pledge of the society, ard, with 
tears in his eyes, gave me back — ten thousand times more precious 
than ever — my mothfrV «olo ring. 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE EOBIN 


A Tery ftw weeks only hare gone by, since I requested you to read Number One. It is prolabU 
fli&t you have complieii with my request ; for the publishers inform me they are already at worh 
Jie ninth edition, and have been requested,- by the friends of temperance, in the State of New 
York, to permit them to strike off one hundred thousand copies for gratuitous distribution. 

I have been cheered by the assurance of some highly intelligent and benevolent individuals, that 
Number One has been productive of good. I wrote it for that end, and sent it forth into the wend, 
with a jfrayer to that effect. I thank the Giver of every good and perfect gift, that he has vouch* 
safed his blessing upon these humble labors. 

I now respectiully present Number Two for your perusal. It has been objected to Number One, 
that the language in which it is written is above the level of certain capacities ; and that farmer 
Johnson does not talk precisely in a farmer-like style. The same objection may, with equal pro- 
priety, be made to Number Two. But it must be remembered, that these stories are not intended 
for little children alone, nor by any means exclusively for uneducated persons. There are many, 
if mature age, excellent capacity, and highly educated, whom we would persuade to become as little 
thiidren, and profit by that instruction which these tales are designed to supply. 

We are apt to over graduate the change, between our present seasons and the corresponding 
seasons of our youth, forgetting that Thomson’s description of an English spring, by which so many 
of us have been fairly transported, in our childhood, over the sea, is, after all, the genuine spring 
which lives in our early recollect ions. It appears to me, that we have been occasionaRy misled, in a 
somewhat similar manner, in the preparation of books designed for certain classes of our fellow- 
countrymen. Under a monarchy, it is of importance to keep up the Chinese wall of distinction 
between the rich and the poor. When a simple commoner, by his prodigious wealth, or colossal 
intellectual oo'sex, distinguishes himself, he is taken over the wall, and transformed into a lord, 
lest he should furnish an inconvenient exception to the general rule. Knowledge and ignorance, 
refinement and vulgarity, under such a form of government, are placed and retained in the most 
striking contradistinction to each other. Societies for the diffusion of useful knowledge are grad- 
ually demolishing the barrier. Until very lately, however, a convention of all the American 
children, of seven years old, would have rejected, by an overwhelming vote, as beneath their capac- 
ity, a very large proportion of all the little volumes prepared for the mechanics and peasantry of 
England. It is not easy to perceive, even in works designed for children alone, the utility of bro- 
ken English ; nor of a mean and meagre phraseology in those intended for the majority of the people. 
There are many sensible remarks, having a bearing on this subject, in Pope’s ironical examination 
of the comparative merits of the pastorals of Phillips and his own. To be sure, it would not be 
expedient to make a farmer talk like a metaphysician, nor a rough child of the ocean like an accom- 
plished divine. 

1 cannot believe that a hard word, occurring once, or even twice, in a little work of this kind, is 
likely to be productive of harm. No human creature understands the pleasure of overcoming the 
difficulties, which lie in his path, more thoroughly than a New England farmer; and, even if a hard 
word should lie across the furrow, he will not only be enabled to turn it out, with the assistance of 
Noah Webster’s patent plough, but be will be the better pleased with the fruit of his toil, for the 
labor it may cost him. 


Richard Wild and Robert Little were bom on two pleasantly 
situated homesteads, that bounded on each other. Their parents, 
though differing essentially in their habits of life, were good neigh- 
bors. There were but a few weeks’ difference between the ages 
of these children, and they grew up from their cradles with the 
strongest attachment for each other. I have seen Robert, a hundred 
times, in the fine mornings and evenings of summer, sitting on a 
particular rock, at the bottom of his father’s garden, with his dipper 
of bread and milk ; not tasting a mouthful till Richard came and sat 
down, with his dipper, at his side. They teetered together on a 
board, placed over the boundary wall. As they grew a little older, 
they snared blue jays and trapped striped squirrels in company ; and 
all their toys and fishing tackle were common property. 

VOL. I. 2 


i4 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LirPLE ROBIN. 


I have often thought there was something in the name which a 
boy acquires at school. Richard Wild, and Robert Little, who was 
smaller of statire, were called, by their school-fellows, wild Dick 
and good little Robin. Robert Little was truly a good boy, and he 
was blessed with worthy parents, who brought him up in the fear 
of God, and who not only taught him the principles of piety and 
virtue, but led him along in those pleasant paths, by their own con 
tinual example in life and practice. Richard Wild was not so for- 
tunate. His father and mother paid less respect to the Sabbath day ; 
and, although, as I have said, the parents of both these children were 
good neighbors, and exchanged a variety of kind offices with each 
other, in the course of a long year ; yet there were some subjects 
upon which they very frequently conversed, and never agreed. The 
most interesting of all these topics of discussion was the temperance 
reform. Farmer Little was a member of the society, and, in his 
plain, sensible way, by his own excellent example, not more than by 
his counsel, within the circle of his little neighborhood, one of its 
valuable advocates. Farmer Wild was opposed to it, in preaching 
and in practice. He was opposed to it chiefly because it was “ a 
sectarian thing . He preached against it on all occasions, at the 
mill and the smithy, the town-hall and the grocery-store ; but he 
was particularly eloquent upon training days, when the pail of punch 
was nearly drunk out ; for he was not one of those who preach and 
never practise. At that time, he was not esteemed an intemperate 
man. To be sure, he was frequently in the habit of taking enough 
to make his tongue run faster than usual, and to light up, in his 
heart, a feeling of universal philanthropy; which invariaWy sub- 
sided after a good night’s rest. Farmer Wild’s wife derived a great 
deal of comfort from a cheering glass. It was particularly grateful 
on washing days ; and she soon became convinced that it tasted 
quite as well on any other day of the week. There was a time 
when she was unwilling that her neighbors should become ac- 
quainted with this disposition for liquor. SI e was then in the habit 
of indulging herself in the frequent use of tea, at all hours of the 
day. She kept it, in constant readiness, on the upper shelf of the 
pantry closet. Upon a certain day, little Dick was taken so sudden- 
y and seriously ill, that his father went for Dr. Diver. I'hc child 
ivas unable to stand, and was so drowsy and sick at his stomach 
that the family were fearful he had been poisoned ; and the more so, 
as he had been seen, in the earlier part of the day, playing before the 
apothecary’s shop. Dr. Diver had recently procured a stomach- 
pump ; and, as he was quite willing to try it, the experiment was 
immediately and successfully made upon the stomach of little Dick, 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


15 


who was speedily relieved of rather more than half a pint of strong 
milk punch. He stoutly denied, with tears in his eyes, that he had 
ever tasted a drop of any such thing ; but finally confessed that ha 
had been sucking tea, as he had often seen his mother do, from the 
nose of her teapot, upon the upper shelf. Farmer Wild, in spite 
of his wife’s remonstrances, took down the teapot, and examined 
its contents, w^hen the whole matter was easily unravelled. The 
farmer scolded his wife for her habit of drinking punch in the morn- 
ing ; and she scolded her husband for his habit of drinking rum at 
all hours of the day. The presence of Dr. Diver appeared to have 
little influence in abating the violence, or softening the acrimony, 
of the family quarrel ; and little Dick was quite willing to be spared, 
by both parents, though at the expense of a broil between them- 
selves. As soon as Dr. Diver had carefully wiped and put up his 
stomach-pump, he took his leave, cautioning little Dick to avoid 
taking his tea so strong for the future. The doctor was not only a 
skilful physician but a prudent man. It is fortunate for the peace 
of every village in the land that doctors are generally aware that 
the acquisition of extensive practice depends, in no small degree, 
upon their ability to hear, see, and say nothing. A village doctor 
is the depository of a great many contrary stories, which, like the 
contrary winds contained in the bag presented by .^Eolus to Ulys- 
ses, would operate sadly to his disadvantage, if he should suffer 
them to get loose. The bosom of a physician should resemble 
the old lion’s den in the fable, into which many strange things were 
seen to enter, but from whence none ever returned. 

It need not be stated, that farmer Wild and his wife were getting 
into a bad way, and that Richard was not likely to be benefited by 
the example of his parents. Pride will frequently operate when all 
higher and holier motive will not. Vicious inclinations are often 
restrained, in the presence of those whom we fancy ignorant of 
our besetting sins. Thus it was with farmer Wild and his wife. 
The domestic explosion, produced by the affair of the teapot, had 
completely broken the ice, as it were ; and, from that moment, nei- 
ther the husband nor the wife adopted any private courses for the 
gratification of their appetite for liquor. The farmer used gin, and 
rum was the favorite beverage of his wife. Their respective jugs 
were regularly carried by little Dick, and brought home filled, from 
the grog-shop. Dicky always calculated on the sugar at the bottom 
of his father’s glass ; and his mother never failed to reward him wuth 
a taste of her owm, if he went and came quick with the jug. Rich- 
ard, w'ho knew nothing of the evil consequences of drinking spirit, 
saving from his experience with the stomach-pump, had ofifered. 


16 


WILD DICK Ai\D GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


more than once, a portion of that, which he had received from hia 
parents, to Robert Little, who always refused it, and told Richard 
that it was wrong to drink it. But Richara replied, that his father 
and mother drank it every day, and therefore it could not oe wrong. 
“ Besides,” said he, “ father and mother are always so good-natured 
and funny when they drink it ; and, after a while, they get cross and 
scold, and, when they drink it again, they fall asleep, and it ’s all 
over.” Robert, as good little boys are apt to do, told his father and 
mother all that Richard had said to him. Mr. Little had observtd 
for some time, that farmer Wild was neglecting his farm, and get- 
ting behind-hand ; and, after talking the matter over with his own 
good -wife, he came to the conclusion that it was his duty to seek 
a fair opportunity, and have a friendly and earnest conversation with 
his old neighbor, on the fatal tendency of his habits of life. “ I shall 
have relieved my mind and done my duty to an old friend,” said he, 
“ if my efforts should produce no good.” He availed himself, ac- 
cordingly, of the first fair occasion which presented itself, on the 
following Sabbath, after meeting. His counsel was of no avail ; 
and he was grieved to find, by an increased violence of manner, and 
an apparent regardlessness of public opinion, that his poor neigh- 
bor Wild was further gone than he had supposed. His irritability 
of temper had sadly increased, and Mr. Little was shocked to find 
that he could not converse on the subject without using profane and 
violent language. The next morning he sent in a few shillings, 
which he owed Mr. Little, with a short message by Richard, that 
he believed they were now even. Robert came in, shortly after, 
weeping bitterly, and saying that Richard’s father had forbidden 
their playing or even speaking together any more, and had threat- 
ened to flog Richard soundly, if he dared to disobey. However 
painful to Robert, Mr. Little did not consider this prohibition so 
great an evil. Richard Wild, though of a very affectionate temper, 
under the influence of his father and mother was becoming a bad 
boy. He was not over nine years of age, and had already acquired 
the name of the little tippler ; and had been suspected, upon more 
than one occasion, of being light-fingered. Farmer Little’s wife, 
however, could never speak of those early days, when Richard used 
to bring his dipper of milk, and sit upon the rock with Robert, at the 
bottom of the garden, without putting her apron to her eyes. Rob- 
ert would often look wistfully at Richard, as he passed, and nod to 
him through the window; and Richard would return it in the saine 
manner, after he had satisfied himself that neither his father nor 
mother was observing him. Dick, with all his failings, was a gener- 
ous boy. A portion of his apples and nuts was frequently seen, la 


WILD VICK AND GOOD LITTLE KOBIN 


17 


the morning, under Robert’s window, where he had placea them 
over night, not daring to venture ovei in the day-time. Neverthe- 
less, 1.3 was becoming daily an object of increasing dislike through 
the whole village. Although there were some who pitied the poor 
boy, and thought his parents much more to blame, through whose 
example he had undoubtedly acquired that ruinous relish for ardent 
spirit ; yet the villagers generally considered the whole family as a 
nuisance, and likely, before long, to come upon the town. Squire 
Hawk, the chairman of the selectmen, who kept the grog-shop in 
front of the meeting-house, concluding that farmer Wild was com- 
pletely down at heel, and had no more money, refused to let him 
have any more liquor at his store, and proposed to post him as a 
common drunkard. But Deacon Squeak, who kept the dram-shop 
at the corner of the road that leads to the grave-yard, knew some- 
thing more of poor Wild’s affairs, and observed, that it would be 
hard to do so, on account of his family ; he knew, from his own ex- 
perience, that a little liquor was, now and then, a help to any man. 
It was soon known over the village, that farmer Wild had conveyed 
the last remnant of his little property, a small piece of meadow land, 
to Deacon Squeak, to be paid for in groceries^ at his store. Poor 
Wild, with the assistance of his wife and little Dick, soon drank out 
the meadow land. The Deacon himself was then perfectly satis- 
fied that it was a gone case. Richard Wild, and Temperance 
Wild, his wife, were forthwith posted as common drunkards ; and 
all persons “ of sober lives and conversations,^'' who sold rum in the 
village of Tippletown, were lorbidden to furnish them with ardent 
spirits any longer. The means of subsistence were now entirely 
gone, and their removal to the workfiouse was a matter of course. 
It was haying time, and little Dick was permitted to earn his victuals 
by helping the hay-makers. They soon detected him in getting 
behind the hay-cocks, and drinking the rum from their jugs ; and 
accordingly little Dick got a sound thrashing, and was driven out of 
the field ; for these hay-makers were so far inclined to promote the 
cause of temperance, that they would not permit any persons, but 
themselves, to drink up their rum. 

I^oor Dick ! he cut a wretched figure, as he went whimpering 
along the road, rubbing his red eyes upon his ragged sleeve. He 
spent that day in strolling about farmer Little’s woodland and or- 
chard, in the hope of meeting Robert. But he was unsuccessful; 
and, at night, he went, crying and supperless, to bed, in the far- 
mer’s bare. He slid down from the hay-mow, before daylight, and 
re.solved to quit a place, where he had neither father, nor mother, 
nor friend, to whom he could look for protection and support. The 

VOL 1. 2 * 


18 


WILD DICK ANL GOOD LIITLE ROBIN. 


day was just dawning, as he came out of the barn : his path lay 
close to the cottage of farmer Little ; he laid a small parcel on the 
door-stone, and passed rapidly on. The parcel was found there, bj 
the first person who came out in the morning ; it was a top. which 
Robert had lent him a great while before. It was wrapped up in a 
piece of paper, on the corner of which was vritten, “ Good-by ^ 
Robert d’’ Before he quitted the village, Dick turned aside for a 
moment, to give a last look at his father’s cottage. It was unten- 
anted, and the person into whose hands it had fa.-en had barred up 
the doors and windows, so that Dick could not get in ; but, through 
a broken pane, he looked into the vacant room, where he had passed 
so much of his short life. He looked over the wall of the little 
garden, now filled with weeds. As he was turning away, he felt 
something move against his leg, and, looking down, he saw the old 
cat, that still clung to her accustomed haunts. She purred to and 
fro at his feet, and looked up in his face. Poor Dick was certain 
she knew him, and he burst into tears. She followed him a little 
way up the lane, and then returned slowly to the cottage. 

“ It was a bonny day in June,” as the poet says, but the darkest 
in the short pilgrimage of little Dick. The birds sang delight- 
fully, as if to mock the poor fellow’s misery; and the copious 
showers of the night had varnished every leaf in the wood. The 
sun had scarcely arisen, and the villagers of Tippletown had not yet 
bethought themselves of their morning drams, before little. Dick had 
fairly cleared the boundary line ; and, upon a rock, on the eminence 
which overlooks the village, he sat down to look back upon it, to 
take a little rest, and to cry it out. To be sure, he had walked only 
four miles, but he had slept little, and eaten nothing, for many 
hours; and he fairly cried himself to sleep. He had slept nearly an 
hour, when he was awakened by a shake of the shoulder. He 
awoke in no little alarm, but became more composed, upon seeing 
before him a stranger in a sailor’s dress, with a good-natured face, 
and a pack upon his shoulders. “ A hard hammock, my lad,” said 
he, “if you have been turning in here for the night.” Dick toll! 
him his whole story, and concluded by saying that he had eaten 
.nothing, for many hours. “Now, my lad,” said the sailor, “ you 
should have told me this first;” and, overhauling his pack, he pulled 
out plenty of bread and cheese, and bade Dick help himself, which 
he did, without being pressed a second time. When he had finished, 
‘ Look ye here,” said the man of the sea. “ If you have been lying 
to me, you have done it with an honest-looking face ; but, if, as you 
say, your father and mother have got into work-house dock, and 
there ’s nobody to give ye a lift, what say ye to a sailor’s life, eh? 






WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


19 


I ’ve beep home to see my old mother, some fifty miles back and to 
leave her something to keep her along ; and I ’m now getting doAvn 
again, for another cruise. Now, if you like it, I ’ll take ye under 
convoy You ’re no bigger than, a marlin-spike, to be sure, but the 
best tars begin when they are boys. Well,” continued he, strap- 
ping on his pack, and taking up his hickory stick,^“what say you, 
my lad, yes or no?” Dick accepted the proposal, and away they 
trudged ; the sailor relating, by the way, a hundred tales calculated 
to stir tlie landsman’s heart. 

Let us cast back a look upon Tippletown. On the day, when the 
top and the farewell message were found upon farmer Little’s door- 
stone, Robert was sent home sick from school, with a message from 
the schoolma’am, that he had cried the whole morning. Even far- 
mer Little and his wife were deeply affected at the little incident. 
Day passed after day, and it was commonly believed that Dick had 
run off. In about six months his father died of the dropsy, and his 
mother soon followed, of consumption ; and both were buried from 
the workhouse in the drunkard’s grave. 

A year had gone by, and nothing had been heard of Dick. In the 
month of June, a mariner stopped to rest, at the tavern in Tipple- 
town, on his way to visit his relations, in another state. He 
inquired if a family, by the name of Wild, lived in that village, and 
was informed that the parents had died in the workhouse, and the 
son was supposed to have run off. He then related his adventure 
with little Dick, for this was the very sailor who took him to sea. 
“ A smart little fellow he was,” said he, “ and if he had lived, there 
would not have been his better, in good time, to hand, reef, and steer, 
aboard any ship that swims. He was but eleven, and as smart as a 
steel trap.” “ Pray, sir,” said the landlady, la)ring down her knit- 
ting, and taking off her glasses, “was Richard Wild lost at sea?” 
“Ay, ay, good wife,” said the mariner, dashing the tear from his 
eye, with a hand as big and as brown as a leg of mutton half roasted ; 
“lost at sea, off Cape Hatteras, in a gale that made the old ship 
crack again, and with the sky as black as midnight without moon. 
A sea, and a horrible sea it was, struck us on the quarter, and took 
the poor lad with it, together with Bob Gleason, the second mate 
Bob, poor fellow, cried out lustily, and his shout, as he went over, 
was louder than the storm; but the cries of little Dick sunk into the 
hearts of the whole crew The old boatswain, who had a fine voice 
and was the life of the ship’s company, refused to sing another sono 
till we got into port.” “And why, in the name of patience,” cried 
the old landlady, whose spectacles had fallen, in her excitement, 
into the spider, where she was cooking the sailor’s breakfast, “why 


WILD DICK AND COOD LITTLt ROHIN. 


did n’t you stop your vessel and take ’em ini” “ Stop the whirlwind 
goody!” replied the man oi the sea, in a voice in which grief and 
anger were equally apparent; “you might as well ask your land- 
lubber of a militia captain, strutting out yonder on the common, to 
countermarch a West India hurricane. Stop the old ship ! Why, I 
tell ye, old woman,” raising his voice to the pitch of an angry bull, 
“ I tell ye we were scudding, with a rag of a storm foresail, at the 
rate of thirteen knots an hour. Stop her with a vengeance! Why, 
the old dragon of a ship was flying through the sea like a crazy 
shark. I could have jumped over after the poor boy, with a lighter 
heart than I can tell you the story ; but I was at the wheel, goody, 
and, if I had let go, for an instant, we should have broached to, 
and then you would never have had the story from me. I bawled 
out loud enough : they heard me, I ’ll warrant ye ; three hen-coops 
were torn from their lashings and thrown overboard, sooner than you 
can say Jack Robinson.” “Well, well,” said the old woman, 
“I would have left my wheel any time, to save the life of the poor 
child.” The sailor rose, and strapped on his pack, and took up his 
old stick. “Stop, sir,” said the old woman; “your eggs are just 
done ; I meant no offence by what I said ; your breakfast will be on 
the table directly.” “ Not at all, goody,” said he, as he threw down 
a five-franc piece on the table; “ no offence, but my stomach is full 
enough for to-day; your breakfast would stick in my hatches.” 
The old salt walked out of the inn, without saying another word, 
and was soon out of sight of the villagers, who had crowded round 
the door. 

The story soon spread over the village, and received a variety of 
commentaries, agreeably to the various impressions, left upon the 
minds of different persons, in relation to the subject of it. “There 
is an end of the devil's bird,” said Squire Hawk. “ It all comes of 
intemperance,” said Deacon Squeak, as he had just come from pour- 
ing twenty-one gallons of pure water into a hogshead containing 
forty-two gallons of New England rum. There were some, how- 
ever who viewed the matter in a different light; and who were wil- 
ling, now that he was gone, to admit that Dick was not a hard- 
hearted boy. Old Sukey, the cripple, said that he was a great 
rogue; “but there,” said she, showing her crutch, “the little fel- 
low Made it for me, and I ’ve used no other for three years.” The 
news cast a gloom over the family of farmer 1 jttle. Robert, who 
first heard the tale, was scarcely able to relate it to his father and 
mother. The good man moralized very sensibly upon the subjee-t ; 
ran briefly over the history of poor Wild and his wife; admitted that 
Richard was a boy of good parts, and of an affectionate temper ; and 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROE N. 


21 


very properly ascribed his bad habits and untimel) end to the exam- 
ple of his wretched parents. 

In a few years, farmer Little found it convenient to employ a boy, 
upon his farm, instead of his own son, whom he had thoughts of 
putting under the care of Parson Jones, to be fitted for college. A 
neighbor had made trial, for some time, of a lad, obtained at the 
House of Reformation ; and the farmer had made up his mind to 
folloAv the example. He made application accordingly. In a short 
time, he received an answer from the directors, stating, that theie 
was a boy in the institution, by the name of Isaac Lane, who w'as 
desirous of going on a farm, and whom they were willing to bind 
out, and could safely recomrnend. Farmer Little agreed to receive 
him, and a day was appointed to visit the city, for the purpose of 
executing the indentures. Before the period arrived, he received a 
letter from the directors, in the following words : — 

Boston, May 23, 18 — . 

Dear Sir : 

A circumstance has occurred of which it is proper to give 
you immediate notice. The lad, whom we were about to bind out to 
you, and who had appeared much gratified ivith the arrangement pro- 
posed, upon the statement of your name and residence, became exceed- 
ingly dejected and embarrassed, and finally communicated the foUoioing 
story to one of the directors. He says that his real name is Richard 
Wild ; that his parents are living, he believes, in your village ; that 
he ran away four years ago, and was induced to go to sea by a sailor, 
who was particularly kind to him ; that he was washed overboard in 
the Gulf Stream, in a gale of loind, and, seizing a hencoop that 
was thrown after him, was taken up the next morning, and 
finally brought into this port; that, not wishing to use his real 
name, he adopted that of the sailor, who carried him to sea. Un- 
der this name, he was sent to the House of Reformation, for tip- 
pling and stealing. He is willing to come into your employ, but 
thinks you will not be willing to receive him. You will do as you 
think proper. It is hut an act of justice to this lad to say, that 
his conduct here has been exemplary, and he appears to us to have 
needed nothing, but the advantages of mo^al influence. He is in 
great favor with his fellows, not less than it iih the superintendmt and 
directors. He has been two years in the institution. An early answer 
is reijuested. . Respectfully yow's, <fc. 

The -stonishment, produced by the reception of this letter, in the 
family of farmer Little, oan easily be conceived. The course to be 
pursued became a subject for serious reflection with the farmer, who 


^2 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


seldom had occasion to repent, at his leisure, of follies committed ic 
haste. It scarcely need be stated, that Robert and his mother were 
strongly in favor of receiving Richard Wild, as one of the family. 
‘The next day farmer Little set forth for the city, to form an opinion 
for himself, after seeing the boy, and conversing with the directors. 
In two days he returned, with Richard Wild at his side, now no 
longer little Dick, but a tall stout boy, with an agreeable but rather 
sober expression of face. It was an interestir g sight to witness the 
affectionate meeting between Richard Wild and Robert Little. The 
■hrmer admitted to his family, that he could scarcely have beliiwed 
"t possible, that so great a change could have been wrought in any 
boy, as appeared to have been produced in Richard, during his resi- 
dence at the House of Reformation ; and he expressed himself highly 
gratified by the manner in which he had received the intelligence of 
the death of his parents. The continued exhibition of precept and 
example, at that excellent institution, for such a length of time, had 
broken the chain of evil habit, and given to this unfortunate and 
misguided boy a new departure, as the sailors say, for the voyage of 
life. “ How very great,” said farmer Little, “ are the responsibil- 
ities of parents, for the influence of their example upon their chil- 
dren ! And how can we be sufficiently grateful to those kind-hearted 
men, who tread in the steps of their blessed Master; who go about 
doing good ; who have built up such institutions as these ; and who 
'go up and down the streets of our great cities, snatching these brands 
from the burning! ” “I consider the House of Reformation,” said 
Parson Jones, who had heard of this remarkable event, and ridden 
over, but too late, to see Richard, who had gone to his work; ‘*'1 
considef the House of Reformation,” said this good man, “ as a 
great moral machine. How remarkably does this child appear to 
have been the object of Heaven’s particular regard ! He has been 
almost miraculously preserved upon the pathless waste of waters. 
He has not been permitted to perish in the midst of his wickedness ; 
but, under the guidance of the Father of the fatherless, he has been 
borne in safety to the shore. All things have worked together for 
his good. Even the very sins, which he committed, have conducted 
him to the place of safety and reformation.” 

The arrival of Richard Wild in the village of Tippletown was 
an event of no ordinary character. Many were eager to behold the 
child, that had been lost, and was found; and not a few’, in whose 
tnuids curiosity and incredulity were blended together, wcie desjnnio 
of scrutinizing the little sinner, that was said to have r»j[»eoled. 
Accordingly, on Sabbath morning, all eyes were curned tiiwards 
farmer Little’s new, to catch a glimpse of little Dick ; and so uni- 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


23 


versally striking was the change, not orly in size, but in his air of 
manliness and the gravity of his deportment, that he went by no 
other name, from that day, than Richard Wild. The wretched and 
ragged little runaway, flying barefooted from his native village, with 
his dirty clothes and crownless hat, had undergone, to all appear- 
ance, a complete transformation, within and without. He was now 
nearly fifteen years of age, and robust for his years. His ruddy 
complexion, well-washed face, and smooth dark hair, together with 
his blue jacket and trowsers, white collar and neat black riband, 
were indicative of cleanliness and health. After meeting, as farmer 
Little and his wife, with their daughter Abigail, were returning 
home, followed by Robert and Richard, when they had turned off 
the main road into the by-way that leads to the farm, they were 
called after by old Sukey, the cripple, who came hobbling behind 
them, as fasi as leg and crutch could carry her. They paused for 
old Sukey to come up with them. “Now tell me,” said she, “is 
it Richard Wild? I have kept my eyes on the boy, sinner that I 
am, the whole morning, but he has not lifted his own to give me a 
chance to see if it was he, by the little cast that he had, you know.” 
Richard shook hands with the zealous old creature, and no sooner 
raised his eyes upon her than she exclaimed, “Oh yes, it is he; and 
you was not drowned, after all, was you, poor boy? You was 
always a good-hearted boy, Richard, and you see,” said she, hold 
ing up the old crutch, “you see I have kept it, haven’t I?” Rich- 
ard was pained and pleased by the various recollections, associated 
with the circumstance, to which the old woman referred; and, with 
another cordial shake of the hand, and a promise to come and visit 
her at her old cottage, he bade her good-by, and followed the farmer 
and his family, who had advanced a little way before. 

Richard continued to grow in favor with God and man. He 
gave farmer Little complete satisfaction, by his obedience, industry, 
and sobriety. He was permitted to cultivate a small patch of ground, 
on his own account; and the first money which he obtained by his 
diligence was employed in procuring a plain gray slab, which he 
l)laced upon the spot, where the sexton assured him his parents were 
buried ; though nothing marked the place but the crowning sod. 
The inscription was wonderfully simple, and intended, not as an 
unmerited honor to the dead, but as a simple memorandum fo: him- 
self. It was comprehended in five words, with his own initials, and 
ran thus: “My poor Father and Mother. R. W.” 

He was very kind to old Sukey, who was very poor, but who 
kept herself from dependence on the town for support, by her own 
industry, and the assistance of her daughter Margaret, who, with an 


24 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBLN 


old house-dog, were the only tenants of the little low cottage, at the 
bend of the river. 

It is now eighteen years since Richard returned to the village 
Few villages, in the same number of years, have\undergone such 
remarkable changes as Tippletown. It is changed in name and in 
nature. It is now called Waterville, and not a single license is 
granted, within its bounds, for the sale of ardent spirit. It is hard, 
as the proverb saith, for an old dog to learn new tricks : Squire 
Hawk, having been removed from the board of selectmen, and una- 
ble to obtain a license for the sale of rum, in that village, removed 
his residence to another ; and, after keeping a grog-shop for a few 
years, died of the dropsy. We are grieved to say, that Deacon 
Squeak died a drunkard, and was buried from the poor-house. 

As you enter the village, over the great county road, you see, at 
a short distance from the public way, and on the westerly side of it, 
under the shade of some .emarkable elms, two white houses with 
green blinds ; they are ^^recisely alike. One of them is the residence 
of the Reverend Robert Little, the present worthy minister ; and the 
other is occupied by Richard Wild, FiSquire, the chairman of the 
selectmen. These houses are on the very sites once occupied by 
the cottages in which “ Wild Dick ” and “ Good Little Robin ” w’ere 
born. There is a beautiful summer-house, tastefully covered 
with grape-vines, lying midway between these dwellings, and which 
is obviously common to both. It is constructed over the rock at the 
bottom of the garden, upon which they used to convene, with their 
dippers of bread and milk, some thirty years ago. Old farmer Lit- 
tle and his wife are yet living, or were in June last, and residing 
happily with their children. Their son, the clergyman, married an 
amiable young lady from a neighboring town. Abigail is married ; 
not as the reader supposes, and as the whole village had arranged it, 
to Richard Wild, but to a respectable farmer in the upper parish. 

About eight years ago, the British consul published the following 
advertisement: — “J/’ Richard Wi7</, who, in the year 18 — , was 
washed overboard from the ship George, off Cape Hatteras, be living, 
he is requested to give rlotice at the office of the British consul, in this 
city.’’' Some person informed Richard of the publication. He 
accordingly presented himself at the consul’s office, and was shown 
the copy of a will, in these words: — “I, Isaac Lane, now of the 
city of London, master mariner, having no near relation, do hereby 
give, devise and bequeath all my estate in this world, to Richard 
Wild, formerly of Tippletown, in the commonwealth of Massachu- 
setts, in Nbw England, and to his heirs forever, provided, as is 
barely possible, the said Richard be living, and claim this bequest 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


25 


v>/ilhin two years from my decease, otherwise to the use of Green- 
wich Hospital.” Here followed the testamentary formalities. The 
consul then requested Richard to exhibit his right arm ; upon which 
were seen pricked in, with India ink, an anchor with the initials, 

L. — R. W. He then put into his hands a letter from a barrister 
in London, referring to these particulars, and stating that the prop- 
erty amounted to not much less than jG4,000 sterling, or rather 
more than $ 17,000, American money. The necessary arrange- 
ments were soon made ; and little runaway Dick became an object 
of particular interest with the males, and even with some of the 
females of Tippletow, as Mr. Richard Wild, with a fortune of 
$ 17,000, and not a debt in the world; which is more than many a 
merchant can say of himself, though, with one eye closed upon his 
debts, and tbe other open upon his credits, he may look down upon 
the clear estate of Mr. Wild with infinite contempt. Squire Hawk 
had a very pretty daughter ; and there was no man in the village 
more obsequious to Richard. Mr. Wild always treated the Squire 
with the respect due to an older man, but he came no nearer. He 
had never crossed the fatal threshold of his shop since his return. 
He considered Squire Hawk and the Deacon as the prime ministers 
of the ruin of his parents; but he did not presume, by any act of 
hostility to either, to assume the higH office of Him, to whom ven- 
geance belongs. Shortly after this unexpected accession of property , 
Miss Plepsy Hawk astonished the parish with an expensive salmon- 
colored silk, and a new Navarino ; and she used to linger an unne- 
cessary length of time at the door of her father’s pew, till Mr. Wild 
came down the aisle ; and then she would go wriggling and fidget- 
ing out by his side as close as she could decently get. But, after 
a while, finding that she could not attract his attention, she gave up 
the experiment, contenting herself with remarking to all her acquaint- 
ances, that he was dreadfully cross-eyed. 

Mr. Richard Wild managed his property with great discretion. 
His first act was to purchase the old homestead on which he was 
oorn. He was particularly kind to the poor, and old Sukey Lam- 
son, the cripple, came in for a full share of his beneficence. The 
villagers were very much surprised at his kind attention, when he 
became overseer of the poor, to the old Deacon, who was then in 
the poor-house. The mystery was easily explained, — Richard 
Wild was a Christian. It was rather remarkable, that the last frac- 
tion of the Deacon’s estate should have been sold by him to Richard 
Wild, and that it should have been the very meadow land which, 
under circumstances painfully similar, had been sold by his father to 
the Deacon himself. 

VOL. 1. 3 


26 


WILD DICK AND GOOD LITTLE ROBIN. 


There was a prodigious stir in the village when Richard was mar 
ried. Sukey, the cripple, was at the wedding, leaning on her old 
crutch, and with a new gown and kerchief ; and nobody had a greater 
right to be there. There was no little confusion and surprise, when, 
a fev-- Sabbaths before, the Reverend Mr. Little published the bans 
of marriage, between Mr. Richard Wild and Miss Margaret Lam- 
son. Margaret was a pious girl ; and, if it were sinful to be pretty, 
no girl in the parish had more to answer for than Margaret Lamson ; 
though she was altogether too poor to think of a Navarino or a 
salmon-colored silk. I need not say that Parson Little performed 
the marriage ceremony. When, after the service, he went up to 
congratulate old Sukey, “ Ay,” said she, holding up the old crutch, 
“ he will always be a stay and a staff to me, and he always has been, 
and nobody knows it better than you, Robin — the Lord forgive me, 
but I am getting old, and can’t help looking upon ye both as my 
boys.” The old woman is still living, at the age of eighty-nine. 
She retains her faculties surprisingly ; and may be seen every morn 
ing, at the front chamber window of the Squire’s house, with her 
knitting in her hands. 

There is a common bond among all the virtues : no truly good 
man was ever ungrateful : every year, Mr. Wild sends a fine cheese 
and a barrel of apples to the superintendent of the House of Refor- 
mation, not for their intrinsic vilue, but as a continuing mark of hia 
grateful and affectionate respe :t. 


I AM AFEAID THERE IS A GOD! 


For an unbeliever in the doctrines of revelation, we can pray, that God would help his unl,el;ef. 
For an unbeliever in the existence of a God, we can scarcely frame words, in the form of a suitable 
petition. We shudder at our own presumption, as we approach the mercy-seat. 

A Deist or an Atheist, in former days, might have been occasionally found, in our cities, wandering 
and alone ; his hand, like the hand of Ishmael, against every man, and every man’s band against 
him. 

It is not so, at the present time. Infidelity and Atheism plant their standard in the very heart of 
our metropolis. Yet, in the words of our Declaration of Rights, “ It is the right as well as the duty 
of all men in society, publicly, and at stated seasons, to worship the SUPREME BEING, the great 
Creator and Preserver of the universe.” 

For the miserable individual, who disbelieves, all by himself, and troubles not the world with the 
account of those crooked paths and painful processes, by which he descends into those awful depths, 
where he lies forlorn ; for him we have no other feeling, than that of commiseration. 

For (he abandoned wretch, who dares, in the most open and audacious manner, to lay his unhal- 
lowed hands upon the book of God, — not to expound the Scripture, but lo prove the word of God to 
be a lie ; — who can teach nothing, because he knows nothing; — who gathers around him a group 
of both sexes and all ages, and endeavors to prepare them for a career of infamy, by rending away, 
one alter another, the postsand pillars, upon which the social ciaipact is sustained ; — who would 
take away the hope, that makes the humble Christian happy, and leave him nothing but mourning, in 
his dying hour, for the oil of joy ; who vends hooks, indecent and abominable in their character, and 
w ilfully wicked in their design ; for such a corrupt and profligaie scoundrel as this, we have no other 
feeling than a sentiment of unmeasured and unmingled abhorrence. 

Can it be believed, that a wretch, so depraved, can be found upon the earth, who will dare to show 
his contempt for God’s holy word, by hurling the sacred book across the room, in a public assembly 

of males and females! Such is the fact. We leave the reflections to those, who well know what 

offences are punishable by indictment at common law, and to those who desire not to leave their offi- 
cial duties unperformed. 

The miirdeier, the thief, the corrupter of innocence, the advocate of '‘liberal" principles, the 
consistent villain, who shudders at nothing but the imputation of hypocrisy, who admits the charge 
of seduction, but defies the world to show that he ever laid claim to superior sanctity, these and their 
confederates, who are the main pillars of infidel societies, are seldom cold water men. The stimulus 
of intoxication impels its youthful votary to the gaming house or the brothel ; and then, to relieve the 
conscience, yet unseared, of iis oppressive load, it conducts him to the schools of infidelity ; where 
he is happy to be told, and struggles to believe, that .lo crime, however atrocious, can entail upon 
its perpetrator any punishment, beyond the grave ; that “ the judgment ” shall never come ; and that 
the ideas of a God and of a future state are perfectly absurd. Schools of infidelity are obviouslv tne 
preparatory houses for every variety of crime ; and the offender, stained with crime, and trembling 
with alarm, flies back for absolution ; and is comforted, while he listens to the proclamation of a 
miserable being, who is probably remarkable for nothing but his ignorance and his audacity, that 
there is no God. 

Life is passing like a dream. The grave, ere long, will demand its tribute. No human being can 
demonstrate, that there is not a God ; and the last hour of the infidel may bring with it an age of 
agouy ; and his soul may be filled with the tremendous apprehension, that there isl 


My father was a respectable mechanic in the town of . On 

the subject of religion there existed the most perfect unanimity 
between my father and my mother ; and their whole lives were 
ample illustrations of their confidence in the promises of God, and 
of their firm and sustaining belief in the precepts and doctrines of 
Christianity. My parents were both members of the Temperance 
Society, and earnest promoters of the cause, to the extent of their 
limited influence and ability. 

They were the parents of three children, Absalom, Bethiah, and 
myself. At the age of forty-five, I look back upon their simple 
manners and consistent piety, with a feeling of affectinnate respect. 
The village of , which was our place of residence, retains ita 


28 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


primitive simplicity, such as it was, some forty years ago, in a 
degree beyond almost any village in the commonwealth ; not 
because it is situated at a very remote distance from the metropolis, 
for such is not the fact; but its water privileges have not yet attracted 
the serious attention of the manufacturer; it lies abroad from all the 
routes of existing canals and contemplated railways; it has not been 
so fortunate as to become the residence of any man of fortune, retired 
from the bustle of the world; and it has never given birth to any 
ni?re distinguished personage, than General Driver, who keeps tlie 
pulilic house ; is chairman of the selectmen ; commands the militia ; 
and represents the town in the General Court. 

The village pound, and the old gunhouse, with its red doors and 
weather-beaten flagstaff, are just where they were, when I used to 
gather to the spot, with all the children of the village, to see Wash- 
ington and Adams dragged forth upon the common, on the fourth 
of July ; for such were the titles of two brass four pounders, intrusted 
to the care of Captain Solomon Dow. The Reverend Mr. Cooley 
is still the parson of the parish ; and, although a new generation has 
sprung up, since the days of my boyhood, there is enough remain- 
ing of all, that once was, to enable the memory to play the architect 
adroitly, and rebuild the edifice, with all its parts and proportions, 
within and without. Even of the pulpit cushion, upon which the 
good man has administered for forty years, there is enough remain- 
ing to settle the question of identity. The young women enter the 
meeting-house, with sprigs of fennel, and the boys, with pond lilies 
in their hands ; old Caleb Kidder sits in the singers’ seat, with his 
oitch-pipe, just where he used to sit ; and Madam Moody, at the age 
of eighty, in her old brocade, occupies the same seat, in the broad 
aisle, on the right, as you enter, which she occupied full forty years 

ago- 

It has pleased God to bless me in my basket and my store ; and 
I never feel so grateful, for the bounties of Providence, as when 1 
reflect, that they have enabled me to succor and sustain my honored 
parents, in their dark days, and to repay them, in some measure, 
for all their kindness, which I never fully appreciated, till 1 became 
a parent myself. They still live in the old cottage ; and, after many 
afflictions, from a quarter whence they had anticipated nothing but 
rays of comfort, in their latter days, they present a pattern of Chris- 
tian resignation to God’s holy will.' 

My parents, as 1 have stated, were pious people. They were in 
the practice ot morning and evening devotion. My father never 
omitted it, unless he was prevented by sickness ; and, however 
pressed for time, he never departed from a slow and reverential 
manner of performing it “ Whatever business may be delayed,” 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


29 


ne used sometimes to say, “the Lord’s work should never be hur- 
ried.” Notwithstanding the daily precept and example of this wor- 
thy couple, they were called to a bitter trial. The wall of strength 
which they had endeavored to build round about them, the safeguard 
of religion, which they had raised for the protection of their lambs, 
was not sufficient for them all: — the wolf leaped into the fold, 
and snatched one from their grasp — they were the parents of a 
DRUNKARD and an infidel ! 

r have often thought that the simple narrative of their blasted 
hopes would furnish materials for an interesting tale. 

Upon a Saturday morning, in the month of June, 18 — , a young 
gentleman, of very genteel appearance, arrived with a fine horse 
and stylish gig, at the door of Driver’s tavern ; and, delivering his 
equipage to the hostler, requested accommodations, for a day or 
two, during his stay in the village. It was soon rumored about, that 
the stranger was no less a personage than Mr. Bobb, active partner 
in the firm of Bobb and Binnacle. There could be no reasonable 
doubt upon the subject, for he had communicated the information 
himself, before he had been an hour in the village, to the hostler and 
the barkeeper ; incidentally dropping a hint, now and then, of their 
extensive operations, and very considerable interest in various man- 
ufacturing establishments. The manufacturing fever was, at this 
period, approaching that remarkable crisis, after which so many sub- 
jects were reduced to a condition of weakness, from which they have 
not entirely recovered at the present day. The mania had not actu- 
ally extended to our village ; but the proprietors of land, bounding 
on the river, evidently considered their estates of greater importance. 
The value of water privileges, the law of flowage, and the prodig- 
ious profits of manufacturers, became topics of frequent conversation 
at the tavern and the grocery. Squire Gookin openly and frequently 
avowed, that he would not sell his meadow lot, above the red bridge, 
for six times the sum it cost him ; and he has faithfully kept his 
word to the present day. 

Mr. Bobb had scarcely refreshed himself and his apparel, after a 
dusty drive, with a basin of pure water and a clothes-brush, before 
he inquired of General Driver, who was stirring up toddy for the 
selectmen, who were in session at the inn, whether there were not 
some good privileges on the river, that might be bought up, on spec- 
ulation. The General mentioned Squire Gookin’s, and two or tliree 
others. He offered the services of his son, to show Mr. Bobb the 
locations, and apologized for not being able to go himself ; but it was 
haying time, and the press for toddy was so great, that he could not 
'eave. 


VOL. I. 


3* 


30 


I AM AFRAm mmE IS A GOB» 


While this conversation was going- on, Enoch Smith, who went, 
I remember, by the name of Skyrocket Enoch, because his stories 
flew so swiftly, and ended so frequently in smoke; Enoch, who had 
listened attentively to the conversation, lost no time in repairing to 
Squire Gookin’s, and assuring him, that a gentleman of great wealth 
had come from the city, on purpose to buy his water privilege. 
Shortly after, Mr. Bobb and the General’s son were seen going in 
the direction of the river ; and it was rather amusing to observe the 
Squire carefully watching their operations, from behind his corn- 
barn. 

On Sabbath morning, Mr. Bobb was ushered into General Dri- 
ver’s pew, by no less a personage than the General himself; and it 
was universally agreed, that a prettier man never walked up the 
broad aisle, than Mr. Bobb. Katy Cummings, who was too much 
of a wag ever to get a husband , admitted that he had disturbed her 
devotions, and that she should have set her cap for him, if he had 
not appeared to take so much comfort in his whiskers. One young 
woman obviously attracted the stranger’s attention, in an extraor- 
dinary degree ; decidedly the prettiest girl in the parish ; no other 
than my sister, Bethiah. In the afternoon, the constant direction of 
his eyes towards my father’s pew became so very particular, as to 
attract the notice, and provoke the smiles, of more than one of Mr. 
Cooley’s congregation ; and, in the evening, young Mr. Driver con- 
ceived himself authorized, by his intimacy with our family, to intro- 
duce Mr. Bobb to our acquaintance. He was evidently desirous 
of making himself agreeable, and he certainly succeeded. It was 
apparent to me, from the very first moment of his introduction, that 
Bethiah was not at all deficient in that mother wit, which enables a 
young woman to divine, if a gentleman’s visit be intended for her- 
self; and I was not less assured, in my own mind, that she was 
pleased, that it should be. His desire to ingratiate himself with 
every member of our family rendered his manners extremely re- 
spectful and modest ; and we heard little of the extensive operations 
of Bobb and Binnacle. He repeated his visit, upon the following 
day ; and, whatever might have been the measure of his original 
interest in manufacturing speculations, it soon became apparent, that 
he had lost all recollection of Squire Gookin and his water privileges, 
in a subject of a more absorbing nature. 

His visit in the village was extended beyond the period which ha 
had assigned for his departure; and he was finally summoned away, 
by a letter from Mr. Binnacle, informing him of an unexpected pres- 
sure in the money market. His attentions to my sister were very 
particular ; and the manner in which those attentions were received 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOBI 


31 


eft no doubt of the favorable impression bich had been made upon 
-<er mind, perhaps upon her heart. The possibility of such a conse- 
■fuence had occurred to both my parents. Bethiah was an excellent 
girl, but her mind was not altogethei from a romantic bias. My 
father thought proper to converse with her upon the danger of indulg- 
ing any other feelings, than those of good will, towards an individual, 
of w'hoin she knew so little, as of this agreeable stranger. — “Dear 
father,” said she, bursting into tears, “ we are engaged, provided you 
and mother will give your consent, and I am sure you will not refuse it, 
when you come to know Mr. Bobb as well as I do.” — “ Gracious heav- 
en ! ” cried her astonished father, “ engaged ! — know him as well as 
you do ! — my child, you are but seventeen years of age, and you have 
seen this young man every day, for a week ; what can you know of 
him?” — “ Dear father,” replied this infatuated girl, “ I know every- 
thing; he has told me all about his family, and his situation in life. 
His partner, Mr. Binnacle, is a retired sea-captain, of handsome 
property. He knows little or nothing of the business in which they 
are engaged, and leaves everything to the management of Mr. 
Bobb.” — “Leaves everything to the management of Mr. Boob! ” 
exclaimed my father, in atone almost of derision. “Bethiah, as 
you respect my paternal authority, and value my happiness and your 
own, proceed no further in this rash business, until I have made 
such inquiries as are dictated by common prudence.” 

My poor father conferred with my mother, as a matter of course ; 
and blamed himself severely, for permitting an attractive young man, 
of whom he knew so little, to jeopardize the happiness of his child. 
“Perhaps,” said my mother, “he maybe all that he represents 
himself to be.” — “ It may be so,” said my father, “ but I will suf- 
fer the matter no longer to remain in uncertainty. I will go. to- 
morrow, to the city, and make all proper inquiries on the subject.’ 
Without disclosing his intention to any other person, he set forth, 
at an early hour. 

Mr. Bobb had left behind a zealous advocate, in my brother Absa 
lorn, who was one year younger than Bethiah. Indeed it would be 
difficult to say, upon which of the two this young man had produced 
the more favorable impression. It is sometimes amusing to contem- 
plate the fantastical grounds, upon which youthful lovers will.rest a 
conviction, that they are destined by Heaven, for each other. After 
exhausting all other arguments upon her mother, in justification of 
her conduct, Bethiah admitted, that she had been greatly surprised^ 
an<l perhaps somewhat influenced in her feelings, by discovering that 
the initials of Bethiah Atherton Jennings, when reversed, were also 
the initials of Julius Augustus Bobb. 


32 


AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD 


My father returned on the following da/. He had ascertaip3(i 
that Bobb and Binnacle were engaged, to some extent, in the rcin 
ufacturing business. The depths of that ocean of speculation were, 
at that time, altogether unfathomable. But my father evidei tlji 
inclined to the hopeful side of the problem. He had received no 
information unfavorable to the moral character of Mr. Bobb. He 
was esteemed an amiable man, by his acquaintances, and perfectly 
honorable in his dealings. His parents had been free livers, and 
died just about the time, when they had run through a very hand- 
some property. My father was pained to hear, that this young man 
had probably received no serious impressions on the subject of relig- 
ion, in his youth ; but he was gratified, on the other hand, to learn 
that he was a member of the temperance society. 

There are matters of deeper interest, in which it is desirable to 
engage the reader’s attention ; and I will therefore pass over this 
portion of our family history, in a summary manner. My parents 
smiled upon the hopes of their daughter. Bethiah, in due time, 
became the wife of Mr. Bobb, and went to reside in the city. The 
dawn of their married life was as bright and clear as the dawn of an 
April day. Would to heaven, this were the only point, in which 
there existed a resemblance between them ! They had not been 
married six months, before a report was circulated in the village, 
that Bobb and Binnacle had failed. This report was readily traced 
to Skyrocket Enoch, who had returned with a wagon from the city. 
My father went to examine Enoch, upon the subject 'vho staged, 
that he had heard of a manufacturing firm, that wctild ial snonly 
but did not hear their names ; he guessed it must 1>3 Bduo and Bir> 
nacle ; and as he had been full four and twenty hours a coming up, 
he reckoned they must have failed by the time he arrived. Our 
apprehensions were excited, on the following day, by a letter from 
Mr. Bobb, pressing my father to come down, as soon as possible. 
He complied with this request, and was informed, that there was 
not the least cause of alarm ; but the pressure for money was so 
great, that they were compelled to ask his assistance. They were 
in want, at that time, of $7,000, and could obtain it of the bank, 
with his endorsement. It was rather more than all my father was 
worth in the world, but the case was urgent. He put his name 
upon their paper ^ the $ 7 ,000 were swallowed up in the whirlpool 
of their complicated concerns, like a ship’s long boat in the mael- 
strom of Norway. In a fortnight, they were bankrupts, stock and 
fluke; and my father’s little property, the laborious accumulation 
of many years, went before the torrent, like chaff before the driving 
storm. 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


33 


If, upon such an occasion, there be any consolation, and undoubtedly 
there is, in universal and respeclfiil sympathy, my poor old father 
had an abundant share of that good thing. The creditors were very 
considerate ; they were commercial men, in whom the spirit of 
trade had not vanquished the spirit of compassion and humanity. 

My father surrendered all his little property, requesting permis- 
sion to retain nothing but the tools of his trade, which were secured to 
him by law, and the old family Bible ; but the creditors relinquished 
their c.aim upon his furniture, and he gave them possession of his 
homestead, which was sold with his consent, subject to his right of 
redemption, under the mortgage. “ God’s will be done !” said he, 
as he locked up the old house, for the last time, preparatory to the 
delivery of the key to the new proprietor. 

He was sixty-three years of age, when he commenced life anew. 
He went with my mother, who bore her misfortunes quite as well 
as her husband, to board with a neighboring farmer, a portion of 
whose barn he speedily converted into a temporary work-shop ; and, 
the next morning, the old sign of “David Jennings, House- 
WRiGHT,” long laid by, and which had been familiar to the villagers 
for thirty years, was cleared of its dust and cobwebs, and placed 
over the door. 

“Just what I should have expected,” said Parson Cooley, when 
he first heard of it. “David Jennings would sooner take up the 
implements of honest industry, than add to the burthen of any other 
man.” The next Sabbath he preached an excellent sermon, on 
resignation under afflictive trials. As he went home, he obsenmd 
to his wife, “ Squire Gookin has lost a few sheep of the rot, and 
liis countenance exhibited the deepest distrt ss during the whole time 
1 was preaching ; while David Jennings and his wife, who have los!; 
all they have in the world, presented the happiest examples I have 
ever witnessed of cheerful submission to God’s holy will.” 

Almost immediately after my sister’s marriage, my brother Absa- 
lom, agreeably to a previous arrangement, went to the city, as an 
ur der clerk, in the store of Bobb and Binnacle ; and, at the time of 
their failure, being a young man of good abilities, he soon founds 
employment in another establishment. 

From my early youth, I had a partiality for a seafaring life ; and 
I have followed the profession, ever since I was sixteen years old. 

1 had doubled that age, at the period of my sister’s marriage, and 
arrived from Bombay, just a week before the ceremony took place. 

In about six weeks afterward, 1 sailed for Calcutta, and was absent 
during the period of these calamities, and, indeed, for nearly three 
years, without any direct intelligence from home. I had heard a 
rumor of the failure, but nothing of my father’s misfortune. 


34 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


I arrived at the port of New York, in May, 18 — , and taking the 
mail stage, reached Worcester, the nearest town, upon the route, to 
the village where I was born. I then obtained a horse and chaise, 
and came to the old homestead a little after midnight. I rapped at 
the door, and, after a short interval, the window was opened, and a 
voice, my father’s, as I supposed, for it was raining hard, and 1 
could not perfectly distinguish, inquired Avho was there. “ Don’t 
you know the voice of your own son ?” said I. — “ Friend,” replied 
the person at the window, “ the tavern is only a quarter of a mile 
off, and, if you are in your right mind, I advise you to find your way 
to it.” — The window was immediately put down, but not till I was 
satisfied, that the voice was not the voice of my father. I have 
heard breakers over the lee bow, in a darker night ; but never did 
the blood rush so violently to my head, as at that moment. “ My 
parents are dead, then,” said I, involuntarily, as I placed my hand 
upon my forehead. — At that moment, the window was opened again, 
and 1 heard a female voice, within the apartment, exclaiming in a 
tone of earnestness, “ I have no doubt it is he.” — “ What is your 
name?” said the man at the window. — The heart of the patriarch 
was not more full, when he put the question to his brethren, I am 
Joseph, doth my father yet livel than mine, when 1 put a similar 
inquiry, in relation to my old father and mother. The occupants 
were soon in motion ; and, the door was opened by farmer Weeks, a 
worthy man, who proceeded to rake open the fire, while his good 
wife began to prepare some refreshments. They persuaded me to 
remain, till'daylight, and gave me a particular account of my father’s 
misfortunes. I learned also from them, that Bobb and Binnacle had 
separated, and that the latter had returned to his old profession. 
Farmer Weeks observed, that my father and mother bore up, under 
the loss of their property, wonderfully well ; but he admitted, that 
some other troubles, within the last two years, had made a deeper 
impression upon their minds. I gathered from the hints, which the 
farmer dropped, with evident reluctance, that their unhappiness was 
c aused chiefly by the misconduct of my brother Absalom. 

As soon as the day dawned, I proceeded to the house, in which • 
farmer Weeks informed me my parents had continued to reside, 
since their removal from the cottage. As I drew near, I observed 
a person coming from the door, with a broad axe over his shoulde r, 
and a carpenter’s apron : his quick step, for a moment, deceived me ; 
but a second glance assured me of the truth — it was my old father, 
going forth to his morning’s work. He knew me, in an instant, tind 
dropping his tools upon the ground, threw his arms about my neck, 
and wept like a child. We returned together to the house. My 


1 AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


35 


poor mother, who appeared to have suffered more, in her bodily 
health, in consequence of her domestii affliction, was overjoyed at 
my return. Even the kind people, where my parents resided, 
appeared to think themselves fairly entitled to rejoice with those, 
who rejoiced, to whom they had given the surest evidence of their 
sympathy in affliction. « 

“ Poor Bethiah,” said 1, as soon as we were left to ourselves, 
“ what is her situation, and that of her husband — “ Bethiah,” said 
my father, “ is the mother of three little girls. Her husband, I 
trust, is becoming a religious man. They are very poor.^ and have 
hard work to get along in the world. But Bethiah says there nevei; 
was a kinder husband. Their troubles seem to have attached them 
more closely to each other.” — “ And Absalom,” said I, “ where is 
he ?” — “In the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity,” replied 
my poor father, with an expression of the deepest affliction, while 
my old mother covered her face with her hands. — “ For Heaven’s 
sake, dear father,” said I, “ what is the matter, has he conunitted 
any crime?” — “ Absalom,” said he, in a voice, scarcely articulate 
for grief, “ is a drunkard and an infidel ! While he continued 
with his sister and her husband, he was virtuous and happy. After 
the failure, he found employment elsewhere ; fell among evil asso- 
ciates, and was ruined. He frequented the theatre, and other scenes 
of dissipation, and speedily acquired habits of tippling. In a moment 
of intoxication, he w^as persuaded to go to a meeting of infidels ; their 
doctrines were new to him ; and, however monstrous, their very 
novelty excited an inte-est in his mind : he went again, and again, 
and became a convert. He was not in the habit, at this period,, of 
going frequently to his sister’s residence ; and the mischief was 
accomplished, before I had any knowledge of his evil courses. At 
length, I received a letter from Bethiah and her husband, communi- 
cating their fears. I repaired to the city, the next day ; and, arriving 
in the evening, I inquired for Absalom, at his lodgings ; and was 
informed, that he might probably be found at the lecture room. I 
obtained directions, and repaired to the spot without delay. I 
entered a room, in which was a collection of males and females of 
decent appearance, and took my seat, in a retired corner. 

“After a few minutes, I discovered my misguided son, and endeav- 
ored to keep myself concealed from his observation. Presently the 
lecturer commenced. He was a tall man, with round shoulders, and 
very gray hair. I should think him over sixty years of age ; his 
face was florid ; his eyes were contracted, downcast, and expressive 
of cunning and duplicity. I should not have been willing to trust 
Any man, who had so much the appearance of a knave. But what 


3G 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


was my horror, when this gray-headed castaway threw the volume 
of eternal life across the room, and pronounced God’s holy word no 
better than a lie ! What were my emotions, when I beheld this 
poor miserable wretch, tottering, as it were, upon the brink of the 
grave, abusing the lamp of reason, by employing it to mislead his 
fellow'-creatur^s to destruction ; prostituting the highest gift of God, 
to prove, that there is no God ! At length this hoary-headed scoun- 
drel exhausted his stock of sacrilege and folly, and resumed his seat. 
The meeting broke up ; and, keeping my eye upon my wretched 
boy, I followed his steps into the street. He turned into a dram- 
shop, in the neighborhood of the pandemonium from which he had 
so lately descended. I saw him, while my eyes wept tears of 
anguish, pour the accursed poison down his throat. I forbore to 
interrupt his orgies, in their present stage ; I determined, agonizing 
as it might be to a father’s heart, to observe his progress. In a 
short time, he sallied forth ; and again I followed his steps. 

“ After winding through several streets, he associated himself with 
an abandoned woman, who was strolling purposely alone ; and they 
repaired, arm in arm, to another dram-shop, of a more genteel de- 
scription. They passed into a recess, provided with curtains for 
concealment. I stood, at a little distance from the door, and in a short 
time, I saw a servant conveying liquors and refreshments to the 
recess, and closing the curtains, as he retired. Now, thought I, is 
my time ; — I passed into the shop, and, taking up a light, proceeded 
to the spot, and drawing back the curtain, held the light before my 
face. This child of sin was perfectly thunderstruck : at first, he 
attempted to escape ; but I held him firmly by the arm. His vile 
companion, and a brazen-faced Jezebel she was, had already fled. 
Absalom, said I, as I relinquished my hold, and took my seat before 
him, do you not believe there is a God 1 — No — was the reply, in 
a voice of drunken desperation ! — Father of mercy, I exclaimed, 
has it come to this ! and looking, for an instant, at his feverish 
face and bloodshot eye, and contrasting the object before me 
with the treasured recollections of my happy boy, I buried my 
face in my hands, and sobbed aloud. When I raised my head, he 
had gone. Inquiries were repeatedly made at his boarding house, 
but in vain. It was solemnly affirmed, that he had not returned there. 
[ have never seen him from that hour. — But all this comes not from 
the ground. I am blessed beyond my deserts. Bethiah is happy, in 
her poverty ; and her husband is becoming a better man for a better 
world ; your dear mother enjoys a tolerable share of health ; my own 
health and strength are excellent, and I have enough to do ; and, to 
crown all, you, my first-born, are alive and well, and safely returned 


1 AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


37 


to US agfain. And now, as I see breakfast is nearly ready, let us 
thank our Heavenly Father for all his blessings, and for the special 
Providence of your return.” 

Farmer Weeks exerted himself to find accommodations for his 
family, as soon as possible; I paid off my father’s mortgage, and 
my parents were speedily restored to the old cottage. The tools 
were carefully collected, and replaced in the carpenter’s chest ; and 
the sign of David Jennings, Housewright, was returned once 
more to its resting-place, in the garret. The affectionate respect 
of the villagers, for my parents, was clearly manifested, in the cheer- 
ful congratulations, and hearty shakes by the hand, which met them 
at every step : and, when my father was in search of a horse-cart, to 
carry back his furniture, and the rest of his little property, the neigh- 
bors gathered round, and took it, at once, in their hands and upon 
their shoulders, and the whole removal was accomplished in half an 
hour. Skyrocket Enoch, who, with all his relish for the marvel- 
lous, was the most amiable mischief-maker in the village, flew, like 
a shuttlecock, from house to house, breaking looking-glasses and 
crockery ware, in the best-natured manner imaginable. 

After my parents had been resettled on the homestead, I visited 
my sister and her husband in the city. I found her, at lodgings, 
up three pairs of stairs, in an obscure but respectable part of the 
metropolis; and, receiving a direction to the first door, on the right 
hand, on the upper landing, I proceeded to find my way. On reach- 
ing the door, I heard a voice, which, I knew, was Bethiah’s ; — I 
listened for a moment ; — she was getting one of her little ones to 
sleep, with the same lullaby, that our good mother had sung to us 
all. — I tapped at the door ; — she opened it herself; — in an instant 
we were locKed in each other’s arms. 

She was thin and pale, but I did not perceive, that she had 
ost any of her beauty. Her fine light hair, and bright blue eyes, 
and beautiful teeth, for which she had always been remarkable, still 
remained, like the prominent points in some interesting landscape ; 
where the woodcapt hill, and the winding stream, and the natural 
cascade, are beautiful still, though the sun may have departed, am! 
the moon alone may display them, by her paler lamp. 

“ Brother,” said she, “ look at these,” pointing to her little chil- 
dren, her bright face covered with smiles and tears, like the soft 
lightning and gentle showers of an August evening, when the ele- 
ments are playing witch-work with the western sky. Her first boru 
were twins ; they were tottling about the room, and the baby was 
in the cradle. “ They are lovely children,” said I, “ but where is 
your husband ?” — “ He is coming home now,” she replied, “ 1 see 

VOL. i. 4 


38 


I AM AFRAID THfeRE IS A GOD! 


nim from “"^he window.” — I followed the direction of her finger,— 
I should not have known him. “Three years,” said I, “have 
altered his appearance prodigiously.” — “Oh, yes,” she replied, 
“ we often laugh over the recollections of our foolish dreams. We 
have done with castle-building in the air ; and are building, I trust, 
upon a better foundation. My husband is one of the best husbands ; 
he is getting to be one of the best Christians also.” — I was suffi- 
ciently prepared to meet him kindly, when he opened the door. 

Everything, which had characterized his person, three years 
before, as the “ active partner, in the firm of Bobb and Binnacle,"’ 
had gone hy the board, as we sailors say. He was plainly but 
neatly dressed ; and a patched boot and rusty hat, though I noticed 
a better one for Sunday, hanging in the corner, indicated an atten- 
tion to economy. After a kind greeting, we sat down together. 
Bethiah spread a neat cloth, on a little pine table, and was making 
preparations for their frugal meal. — “ Captain Jennings,” said her 
husband, a little of the old leaven of pride mantling upon his cheek, 
“lam afraid we can give you nothing better than a roast potato, 
for dinner.” — “Now,” said I, “look here, if you give me any 
other title than Brother David, I ’ll be off, and I want nothing bet- 
ter than a roast potato, provided you ’ve got any salt.” — As I said 
this, I gave him a hearty shake by the hand. — The tear came into 
his eye. “Excuse my weakness,” said he, “but I have seen so 
much of the cold side of the world for some years, that I am scarcely 
prepared for the other.” 

We ate our simple dinner, with an excellent relish. After it 
was over, “Now,” said I, “let ’s have a short talk. I must go 
back, to-night. I understand from Bethiah, that you have settled 
with your creditors, and are earning about three or four hundred 
dollars a year, as a clerk in a wholesale store. That will not do. 
Cook, who has kept store in the village, for forty years, has got old, 
and rich, and wants to sell out ; now I want to make a temper- 
ance store of it ; and, if you can be happy in the country, and are 
willing to take it, I ’ll buy the stock and stand for you : 1 ’ve got 
old Cook’s terms and the refusal in writing.” 

Nothing could surpass the satisfaction, expressed by Bethiah and 
her husband, at this proposal. I returned, and closed the bargain ; 
and, in less than a fortnight, Mr. Bobb was behind the counter, in 
full operation ; Bethiah was settled down with our old father and 
mother, in the spot where she was born ; her twins were creeping 
over the bank of violets, at the back of the house, where she had 
crept, when a child ; and her baby was rocking in the cradle, which 
had been occupied, by four generations. 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


39 


The next Sabbath, when we were all collected together, in the 
family pew, there was a general expression of satisfaction, on the 
countenances of our friends and neighbors : and there were tears in 
many eyes, when Parson Cooley, now three score and ten years 
of age, preached a moving discourse from that beautiful passage, in 
the thirty-seventh psalm, I have been youngs and now am old; yet 
have I not seen the righteous forsaken^ nor his seed begging bread. 

About two years after this happy reunion of our family, our excel- 
lent minister received a letter, from a clergyman in the city, com- 
municating information, respecting my miserable brother. After a 
career of infidelity and intemperance, he was, as the writer sup- 
posed, upon his death-bed, in the last stages of consumption. The 
good man, who sent this information to Parson Cooley, had visited 
the dying young man repeatedly, and described his mind to be in 
such a state, that he desired to die, but for the wish to live, that he 
might atone for his transgressions. As family resemblance will 
sometimes appear to be lost, in a present generation ; and return, 
with all its freshness, in that which succeeds ; so those religious 
impressions, which are made upon the youthful heart, by some faith- 
ful hand, and of which no trace may be seen, through a series of 
frivolous years, will sometimes return to sustain the tottering steps 
of one, who had been lost by the way-side ; and may ultimately 
prove the means of salvation, through God’s boundless mercy, in a 
dying hour. 

It was thought prudent to conceal this intelligence from my pa- 
rents, for the present : and, agreeably to the wish he had expressed, 
to see some of the family, before he died, I immediately set forth 
upon this melancholy embassy. 

I reached the wretched hovel, to which I had been directed, as 
speedily as possible. I did not disclose my name to the miserable 
object, who came to the door, but simply inquired, if Absalom Jen- 
nirigs was there, and how he was. The old woman, who let me 
in, answered, that the doctor, whom the clergyman had sent there, 
thought he could not live long. She added, that the leader of the 
Freetliinkers had never visited him, during his sickness, which had 
continued several weeks ; but that several of the followers had been 
there ; and that two of them were then up stairs. I passed up a 
narrow stairway, and arrived at a little apartment, the door of which 
was partly open. I listened, for a moment, to the closing words of 
a conversation, between these emissaries of Satan, these devils 
incarnate, upon earth, and my dying brother. — “ Well, Jennings,” 
sail one of them, “out with it, what do you think now, do you 
delieve there is a God ?” — I heard nothing but a deep groan, w^hich 


iO 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


went to my heart. — “ Come,” said the other, “ speak cut; if yot 
believe there is a God, we won’t come here again.” — “Johnson,” 
said my poor brother, in a voice of bitter anguish, and in words, 
which were uttered, as if they came from the bottom of his soul ; 
and, I am sure, they went to the bottom of mine, “ I am afraid there 
IS a God!” — These demons in human shape rose to leave the 
apartment. As they passed near me, — “Never set your cloven 
feet again,” said I in a whisper, “ within the chamber of this dying 
sinner.” — “ Why what business is it of yours?” said one of them 
To avoid confusion in such a place, I followed him quietly down 
stairs, and taking him by the shoulder, “ This wretched young 
man,” said I, “is the son of my father and my mother : enter his 
apartment again, and, if you do not believe in God, I will give you 
good reason to believe in man, for I will break every bone in your 
skin.” 

They walked off, in evident alarm ; and I returned to the apart- 
ment. I crept softly to the chamber. I saw, upon a miserable 
pallet ^ pale emaciated man, whose eyes were shut, and whose 
features I studied attentively, for some time, before I could discover 
enough to satisfy me, that I beheld the wreck of a ruined brother. 
Nothing remained of the full features, the smooth forehead, the 
prominent black eye, or the ruddy complexion. The features, and 
especially the nose and cheek bones, were sharpened in a remark- 
able manner ; the forehead was checkered by the signet of prema- 
ture old age ; the face had all the paleness of a corpse ; and the eye, 
which was still closed, appeared deeply sunken beneath the pro- » 
jecting eyebrows. — I approached closely to the bed. — “Absalom,” 
said I; — he opened his eyes, and turned upon me those lights, so 
soon to be extinguished in the grave. — “Absalom,” I repeated, “ do 
you not know me?” — “Oh, David,” he exclaimed, “is it you!” 
and, covering his face with the bed-clothes, he became convulsed 
with sorrow “ My poor brother!” said I, for my heart yearned 
towards him, as I sat down beside him, on the pallet of straw, and 
took his long, lean hand in my own. — “ Oh, David,” said he, “ can 
you love me now?” and he drew my hand to his parched lips, and 
bathed it in tears. 

I sent for the physician, who positively forbade his being moved, 
as I had wished, into better lodgings. I therefore made the best 
arrangement, in my power, for his comfort, and. prepared to remain 
with him, during the night. He appeared to be overwhelmed with 
a grateful sense of this trifling act of humanity. The strongest 
wish of his heart, which he frequently repeated, was the desire of 
seeing his father, and asking his forgiveness. I accordingly do* 


Aivi atkaii; there is a god 


41 


spatched a messenger to Parson Cooley, requesting him to open the 
matter to my father, and come to the city with him, as soon as he 
conveniently could. 

They arrived before noon, on the following day. The interview 
was very distressing. My poor old father no sooner entered the 
room, than this wretched young man, by an unexpected and extra- 
ordinary effort, got out of his bed, and, upon his hands and knees, 
for he could not walk, crawled to his feet and exclaimed, “ Father, 
forgive me, before I die.” My father was greatly shocked by his 
appearance ; and the exertion undoubtedly shortened the period of 
my poor brother's existence. 

After taking a little nourishment, he appeared so much better, 
that I felt almost inclined to think he might recover : but it was only 
the flashing and flickering of life’s lamp, before it is extinguished 
forever. 

During this interval he begged his father and Parson Cooley to 
sit near him. “ Do you not trace all your misery to the use of 
ardent spirit, Absalom?” said the good minister. — “ No sir, he 
replied, “ I never drank any, till about eighteen months ago, but I 
became extremely fond of wine ; and the first time, that I went to 
an infidel meeting, I was intoxicated with wine, which I drank 
at the bars of the theatre. When I could no longer obtain wine, 
as the means of intoxication, I resorted to ardent spirit, because it 
was cheaper ; and finally the fatal relish for ardent spirit destroyed 
my taste, in a great measure, for milder stimulants. Intoxication 
drove me to the brothel ; and the doctrines, taught at the infidel 
meetings, justified my conduct in going there. When I became 
conscious of an oppressive burthen, in the form of crime, I was 
delighted to be told, and to be convinced, that such things, as I had 
thought sinful, were perfectly innocent. The leader of the infidels 
tried to produce this conviction on my mind ; I was desirous of being 
convinced ; and, at length, I mistook the desire to be convinced for 
the conviction itself.” — After a short pause, he continued as fol- 
lows : “ A man, who has committed theft, would be glad to believe, 
that there was no judge on earth ; for then he could not be tried 
here ; and a man, who has committed all sorts of crimes, would be 
glad to believe, that there is no God in heaven ; for then he could not 
be triel hereafter, and to him the judgment never cometh. In my 
hours of intoxication I was more than ever disposed to justify the 
doctrines of infidelity ; and, when listening to lectures upon infi- 
delity, I was the more ready to justify the practice of intoxication, 
and of all other crimes. I believe the leader, who lectures upon 
infidelity, to be an unprincipled villain, and that he preaches these 

VOL. I. 4 * 


42 


I AM AFRAID THERE IS A GOD! 


doctrines, because they are so much more comforting to a hoary 
headed impenitent wretch, than the doctrines of the cross. May 
God of his infinite goodness forgive me my offences, and an aban- 
doned and profligate old man for leading me to destruction.” 

The whole of his physical and intellectual power appeared to be 
exhausted, by this last effort. He dropped his head on one side, 
and there followed a slight convulsion. — I went instantly to his 
bedside ; his eyes were glazed ; — he was fast locked in the \rms of 
death ; — the spirit of the penitent infidel had fled. 

Our good minister supported my old father from the apartment. 
By my advice, they returned immediately home. In due time, the 
earth received its tribute ; and I returned to the village. 

It was a remarkable coincidence, that on the very next Sabbath, 
in reading the Scriptures, Parson Cooley opened to the eighteenth 
chapter of the second book of Samuel ; and when he pronounced the 
words of David’s lamentation, in the concluding verse, “Oh, my 
son, Absalom, my son,” the good old clergyman could scarcely 
speak for his emotion. 

Time, though it cannot obliterate the recollection of such misery 
as this, has already mitigated our affliction. — My parents are still 
living, at a good old age. Their chief employment is a cheerful 
preparation for death. My sister and her husband, with their flock 
of little ones, are prosperous and happy. 

I sometimes encounter an individual, perhaps the member of some 
temperance society, who scrupulously abstains from ardent spirit, 
under its specific name ; but who is eminently qualified, not only for 
the commission of folly, but for the perpetration of crime, by the 
employment of some milder stimulant : upon such occasions, the 
declaration of my unhappy brother, on his death-bed, comes forcibly 
before me ; the use of wine alone brought him to infidelity and ruin ! 

I never meet an individual, who does not believe, that there is a 
God, but who cannot, by any human possibility, know that there is 
not, without a vivid and painful recollection of the life and death of 
this wretched young man. The dying words of a poor penitent 
Infidel, can never h» forgotten, I am afraid there is a God f” 


A SECTARIAN THING 


Vf ienerer an able advocate resorts to a variety of weak and frivolous argum ents, in suppert ef Ilk 
»•»*» cause, It may be sal'ely concluded, that the cause is unsound, and that he knotoa it to be so. 

The venders of ardent spirit, throughout the world, even at the present auspicious era of the tern- 
patance reform, are a numerous, powerful, and vigilant body of men j wise, in their generation, to 
perfection. If the traffic in spirituous liquor could be defended, by the ingenuity of man, it is rea- 
sonable to believe, that, among the multitude, an advocate, sufficient for the work, would lift up 
his voice in its defence. 

The respectability of those, who denounce the traffic, as IMMORAL, entitles their opinions, ptib- 
licly and formally delivered before the world, to the most careful consideration of the whole human 
family. The purity of their motives is beyond suspicion. The universality of their character it 
obvn‘Us ; they come from all quarters of the world, and lay aside, as they approach this great com- 
mon Geld of philanthropy, the discriminating badges of their various professions, and political opin- 
ions, and religious creeds. However unable to agree, upon other matters, they heartily concur in the 
opin.on, and they solemnly pronounce that opinion, that the use of ardent spirit as a drink and the 
trajhc therein are morally wrong, and ought to be abandoned through the world. This opinion has 
been repeated again and again ; by the Congressional convention; — by the great convention, at 
Philadelphia, from all the states; — by the highly respectable convention at Worcester; — by the 
New York state convention, at Utica ; — and, more recently, by the convention in the state of Con- 
necticut. Many of the most eminent men, of this and other countries, have been forward to promul- 
gate and sustain this formal declaration. The reasons, on which it rests, have been scattered abroad 
upon the earth, like the leaves of the trees. They have fallen upon every dwelling, like the 
drops of rain. Journals, magazines, circulars, reports, tracts, tales, full of information and interest- 
ing narrative, have been distributed with an unsparing hand. 

What then, in the shape of an argument, do the venders of spirituous liquors propose, in justifi- 
cation of their continued traffic? — Absolutely nothing. — For a time, it was undoubtedly believed by 
many, that the temperance reform would pass away, like a vapor. Under this belief, the voice pf 
worldly wisdom whispered to the venders, that therr strength lay in silence and perfect inaction.— 
The continual accession of strength, to the side of temperance, and the daily diminishing demand 
for the drunkard’s beverage, began, at last, to impair that belief. — Indications of restlessness were 
occasionally exhibited. ‘‘ At a large and respectable meeting of the grocers in the city of Boston, it 
was unanimously resolved, that they looked, with deep regret, upon the proceedings of the self -styled 
friends of temperance ” Nothing could be mure natural, than that a body of men, who sold ardent 
spirit, should look with regret upon the efforts of those, who were combining to persuade the world not 
to drink it any more. But the friends of temperance were not likely to be diverted from a course, upon 
which the Father of Mercy might be supposed to vouchsafe a smile of approbation, because the vend- 
ers oi strong diink looked upon that very course, through the dust of self-interest, with "deep 
regret." 

Whon no argument can be found to sustain a practice, — and such is not a very wonderful condition 
of things, if the practice be morally wron^ — the most common course is to impugn the motives of 
those, who combine to oppose that practice. Accordingly, however preposterous the allegation may 
appear, the temperance reform has been called a sectarian thing. — In a country, in which, under 
our declaration of rights, no denomination of Christians can be subordinate, in law, to another; 
where no religious faith can rise and reign, as the religion of the land, what is a sectarian thing t 


There is a beautiful river, upon whose unfrequented shores I 
have often strolled, when a schoolboy. Upon a Saturday after- 
noon, when it was too hot for the fish to bite, and not even the 
attraction of a fine young frog would draw out the motionless pick- 
erel from his covert, under the lily-pad leaf ; how often have I laid 
at length, upon that river’s bank, listening to the wind, southing 
through the tall pines. This scene of my early recollections was 
then the very empire of stillness, undisturbed, save, now and then, 
by the clarion throats of two or three colloquial crows, perched upon 
the topmost branches ; or the splash of a solitary kingfisher, the 
halcyon of the rivers and lakes. — But it has passed like a vision. 
— 1 know nothing so closely resembling the operation of the finger 


44 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


®f magic, as the change, which has been wrought, in these seques- 
tered shades. Upon this lonely spot, then unmarked by the finger 
of man, now not a vestige of nature remains. Even the river has 
been diverted from its course ; and its bright waters, which used 
to glide so delightfully along, have been restrained by barriers 
and converted into artificial cascades. The tall pines have been 
])rought low ; the crow, and the kingfisher, and the hill fox have 
been driven into deeper recesses, by the progress of civilization, like 
the pursued and persecuted red man ; and the soughing of the winds 
and the carolling of the birds, in a May morning, have given place 
to the roar of waterfalls, the ringing of bells, and tne noise of 
machinery. The clear and aromatic atmosphere of the pine-lands is 
filled with the smokes of a thousand fires, and rendered almost 
unbreathable, by its commixture with poisonous vapors. Even the 
waters are unnaturally tinged with a variety of dyes, and rendered 
unsafe for the use of man. In a word, this romantic spot is now 
the scene of a great manufacturing establishment; It is the nucleus, 
around which there has gathered a surprising alluvion of population 
and wealth. It bears the name of Clatterville ; and, among its 
inhabitants, there is not a more thriving, driving little man, than Mr 
Aminadab Sharp. 

This individual, who was one of the most successful merchants in 
Clatterville, had been well known in the western country, as Cap- 
tain Sharp. But I have never been able to find the origin of this 
title of distinction, unless in the fact, that, for several years after he 
went thither from New England, he was the sole owner and com- 
mander of one of those little square covered boats, which are fre- 
quently seen, on the Mississippi, and known by the name of pedlers’ 
arks ; and which are commonly furnished with every variety of 
notion, from a tin cullender to a silk glove. We have nothing to 
do, however, with the early history of Mr. Sharp. He had become 
a man of handsome estate ; owned the square brick house in which 
he lived; and was married to a very respectable woman, who, 
though she had no pretensions to beauty, belonged to that denomi- 
nation of human beings, who are very appropriately called the salt 
of the earth. They had only one child, a boy of fair promise, and 
who received the name of his father. At this time, little Amina- 
dab was four years old, and uncommonly forward for his time. Mrs. 
Sharp was esteemed, on all hands, a truly pious and excellent wo- 
man ; and nothing would put her husband into such a violent pas- 
sion, as a suggestion from any quarter, that he himself was deficient 
in any of the Christian graces. He had subscribed most liberally in 
behalf of the new church ; Parson Moody dined at his house, every 


- A SECTARIAN THING. 


45 


Saturday, with all the punctuality ot an eight day ilock ; the cler^ 
g)nnen from all quarters made his house their home, whenever they 
exchanged with Parson Moody ; and, besides, he had paid three 
fourths of the cost of the new organ. Mrs. Sharp was a judicious 
woman, and comprehended her husband’s character to perfection. 
Her words were all good words, in proper season. Occasionally sho 
would place some useful book in his way ; but she was too weL 
acquainted with the infirmities of his temper, to attempt to argue 
with him, on the subject of religion. She prayed for him in secret, 
with all the fervi ncy of an affectionate wife, that religion, pure and 
undefiled, might spring up in his heart. Nevertheless, there was 
a subject, upon which she felt herself conscientiously impelled to 
argue strenuously against the opinions of her husband : the educa- 
tion and general management of little Aminadab were an everlasting 
source of painful disagreement between them. Mrs. Sharp, upon 
this interesting theme, reasoned with great calmness, until the period 
arrived, and it invariably did arrive, when her husband would listen 
to reason no longer. She was particularly desirous that Aminadab 
should profit by attending the Sunday school. This her husband 
opposed with great earnestness. “ Look at me,” said he, “I ’vc 
got on thus far pretty well. I ’ve never been to a Sunday school. 
I ’ll never agree to it ; and, sooner or later, you ’ll find my words to 
be true. all a sectarian thing. Mr. Sharp promised his wife, 

that, if Heaven should be pleased to grant them another child, male 
or female, it should be entirely under her direction ; but he insisted 
on the privilege of rearing their first born, Aminadab, according to 
his own notions of propriety. In little more than a year, Mrs. 
Sharp became the mother of another boy. She reminded her hus- 
band of his agreement, almost as soon as she heard its life-cry ; and 
in the joy of his heart, he solemnly ratified the engagement, con. 
ceding, in all things, to her wishes, oven in the matter of baptism 
Little Aminadab had never been baptized, for, as Mr. Sharp justly 
observed, he had never been baptized himself, and he never meant 
to be ; but he had gotten on pretty well in the world : indeed he 
looked upon every kind of baptism, as a sectarian thing. Little 
Joel, for that was the name, chosen by Mrs. Sharp, in honor of her 
father, was, in due time, given to the Lord in baptism. 

It was a favorite notion with Mr. Sharp, that boys were put to 
their learning, at much too early a period. Aminadab was permitted 
to run at large, until he was eight years old. At length, by the 
earnest persuasion of Mrs. Sharp, her husband was prevailed on to 
commit him to the care of Ma’am Wilkins, who was accordingly 
Bent for to the house ; and, in the presence of her intended charge, 


46 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


received particulai instructions never to break the little fellow’s spirit, 
by the application of the rod. “ If study should not agree with 
him,” said Mr. Sharp, “let him do as he pleases, pretty miueh. 
I^eave the matter to nature, which is the true guide, after all. I ’ve 
gotten on pretty well in the world, as you see. Ma’am Wilkins, and 
I was left pretty much to myself. Making boys study against their 
wills is going against nature, and this newfangled business of whip- 
ping children, in my opinion, is nothing but a sectarian thing.''' 
Ma’am Wilkins was too discreet, to permit an exhibition of her own^. 
notions of discipline to disturb the happy relation, subsisting between 
herself and so important a man as Mr. Sharp. She accordingly 
patted Aminadab on the head, and expressed the high satisfaction 
sue enjoyed, in the prospect of becoming his instructress. As she 
rose to take her departure, it was a wonder, that she did not throw 
the whole tea service down upon the floor ; for Aminadab had con- 
trived to pin the table-cloth to her gown ; and, as it was, she went off 
with a large yellow marigold in her bonnet, which was not noticed, 
by Mrs. Sharp, till Ma’am Wilkins was half across the common. 
Every judicious parent will agree, that Aminadab was richly enti- 
tled to a smart whipping, or an equivalent in some other form 
“ The boy will be ruined,” said Mrs. Sharp, “ if he goes unpun 
ished for this.” “ Let him alone, my dear,” said her husband, w'ho 
sat, shaking his. sides with laughter, “it is only another evidence 
of his genius. Such a child requires but little teaching. He ’ll 
be a self-made man, mark my words. I used to cut such capers 
myself, when I was a boy, and yet you see, my dear, I ’ve gotten 
along pretty well in the world.” 

Ma’am Wilkins had not much reason to flatter herself upon the 
acquisition of a new pupil in the person of Master Aminadab Sharp 
The incident of the table-cloth was an inauspicious omen ; and the 
discovery, which was not made till* she reached her home, tha 
she had been parading upon Clatterville common, with a large yel 
low marigold in the back of her bonnet, afforded no very favorably 
prognostic. 

The missionary cause had become a subject of very considerable 
interest with the more serious people of the village ; and Mrs. 
Sharp was particularly desirous of promoting its welfare. Unfor- 
tunately her husband had formed an opinion against it. “ What is 
the use,” said he, “ of wasting money upon people, whom we don’t 
know and don’t care for, at the other end of the world 1” — “ They 
are our fellow-creatures,” said Mrs. Sharp, “ they have souls to be 
saved, and we can send them Bibles and missionaries, which may 
prove the means of salvation.” — “ Charity begins at home,” ha 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


47 


replied. — “ Well, my dear,” she rejoined, “there are home mis- 
sions, to which your charity will be directed, if you prefer it.” — • 
“ I don’t prefOiT anything about it,” said Mr'. Sharp. “ I ’ve stud- 
ied the subject t3 the bottom ; mark my words, if it don’t turn out 
a sectarian thing. 

In a fortnight. Ma’am Wilkins became entirely satisfied, that site 
must give up the school in Clatterville or Aminadab Sharp. Hh 
was not only a privileged character, but, being conscious of his own 
impunity f-'r all his offences, he did precisely as he pleased ; he 
encouraged the bad boys, and terrified the good ones, until he became, 
to the very letter, a praise to evil-doers, and a terror to those that 
did well. She addressed a respectful note to Mr. Sharp, informing 
him, that she could no longer be mistress, while Aminadab was 
master. Aminadab was accordingly withdrawn, Mr. Sharp being 
perfectly satisfied, that the school was altogether below tho level 
of the boy’s capacity. After a twelvemonth of idleness, he was 
sent to the public school. 

It was about this period, if I remember rightly, that Mrs. Sharj 
became greatly interested in the success of an auxiliary Bible soci 
ety, in which several of her respectable friends were earnestly 
engaged. She desired the pecuniary aid of her husband. — “Not 
a cent,” said Mr. Sharp ; “I know just how this thing was gotten 
up ; I know who was at the bottom of it all ; it ’s a sectarian thing."” 

Little Joel, in all his early indications of character, presented the 
closest resemblance to his elder brother. He was a sprightly and 
rather a mischievous child, but docile, good-tempered, and manage- 
f'ble. Mrs. Sharp availed herself of all her vested rights, by virtue 
of the compact with her husband, to bring up little Joel, in the way 
he should go. She watched over him with unabating solicitude. 
From his earliest years she had taught and accustomed him to 
prayer ; and he had now attained an age, when she conceived it to 
be proper to urge her husband to establish the practice of family 
devotion. “Wife,” said he, “you and Joel may pray as much as 
you have a mind to. As for myself, though the thing may be well 
enough in itself, I ’ll have nothing to do with it. It ’s a sectarian 
thing.” Accordingly Mrs. Sharp was in the habit, morning and 
evening, of taking little Joel into her closet, and offering up their 
prayers and thanksgivings to Almighty God. 

The most excellent maxims, like the sharpest tools, are capable 
of incalculable mischief, unskilfully employed. The accession of 
unexpected wealth, the opportunity for indulging in sny of the luxu- 
ries of life long withheld and suddenly presented, are frequently 
followed by consequences of the most ruii ous character. Mr. Shar], 


18 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


was perfectly satisfied of the truth of this position ; but how strange 
an application he made of the principle, when he gave ardent spirits 
to little Aminadab, to accustom the child to their gradual employ 
ment, and as the means of preserving him from habits of intemper 
ance. It is scarcely necessary to state, that he looked upm the 
whole temperance reformation as a sectarian thing. He was singu- 
larly irritable, whenever the subject was introduced, and has been 
heard to affirm, with great violence of manner, that he would sooner 
cut off his right hand, than employ it in signing a temperance 
pledge. Parson Moody, who was a highly respectable Unitarian 
clergyman, had been earnestly requested, by Mrs. Sharp, to con- 
verse with her husband on the subject ; for she had lately become 
somewhat alarmed at his daily and increasing indulgence. Parson 
Moody was a consistent advocate of the temperance cause. He had 
resolved, before God, to abstain from the use of spirit, and he had 
no scruples against giving an outward and visible sign of that reso- 
lution, before man. He had therefore signed the pledge of the tem- 
perance society. He was not of that number, who strain at the gnat, 
after having swallowed and digested every inch of the camel. To 
be sure, among his parishioners, there were two w^ealthy distillers 
and several influential grocers and retailers ; but there were few 
clergymen, less likely to be diverted from the performance of any 
duty, by the fear of man. There was not an individual in the vil- 
lage, beside himself, who would have ventured, in the hearing of 
Mr. Sharp, to speak openly and decidedly in favor of the temper- 
ance reform. An occasion soon arose, which produced a discussion 
of considerable interest, between Mr. Sharp and his worthy minis- 
ter. — “Good morning, my friend,” said Parson Moody, as he 
entered the merchant’s parlor, at an unusually early hour, for a 
morning visit. Mr. Sharp returned the salutation, with his usual 
kindness of manner, for he had a high respect and esteem for the 
good clergyman. After he had been seated for a short time, Mr. 
Sharp, attracted by the uncommon solemnity of his manner, inter- 
rupted the silence, by inquiring after the news of the morning. 
“It is not an agreeable office to be the bearer of bad news,” the 
good man replied. — “ Dear sir,” exclaimed the affrighted merchant, 
rising suddenly from his seat, and seizing the minister by the hand, 
“has any accident happened to the factories'?” — “None that I 
heave heard of.” — “ You relieve me of my anxiety,” rejoined the 
merchant. — “And yet,” continued his reverend friend, “ you never 
had greater cause for anxiety, in your whole life. I have come here 
to discharge a duty, and to inform you, that, unless a remedy can be 
thought of, and immediately applied, your son Aminadab will become 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


49 


a drunkard !” — “ Gracious Heaven !” said Mr. Sharp, “ what can 
you mean 1 My son a drunkard ! 1 would rather follow him to his 

grave.” — “I know you would,” the clergyman replied, “ and I have 
no doubt, that the consequence, which I solemnly predict, appears 
altogether improbable to you. But permit me to ask you, my friend, 
are you ignorant that your boy drinks ardent spirit 1” — “ My dear 
sir,” said Mr. Sharp, “ I have given him a little, now and then, from 
his childhood, that lie might become familiarized to the use of it ; and 
lest, if I kept it from him, he might hanker after it ; and, when he 
became his own man, fall into bad habits.” — “ My good friend,” 
returned the clergyman, “*did you ever hear of a sensible physician, 
who proposed to familiarize his patients with the cholera or yellow 
fever, by inoculatingthem a little ?” — “ But the cholera and the yel- 
low fever,” said Mr. Sharp, “ are fatal diseases, and drinking ardent 
spirit is by no means always fatal.” — “ Nay, my friend,” the minis- 
ter rejoined, “ those diseases are not always fatal, and inoculation, 
with the matter of either, is, in no respect, more unnecessary than 
drinking ardent spirit ; which may, with perfect propriety, be called 
inoculation for intemperance. Some men will take the distemper, 
and others will not. Some will escape premature death, and do 
worse, by living on, a burthen to themselves and their friends. Four 
fifths of all crime and nine tenths of all domestic wretchedness are 
believed to arise from the use of ardent spirit.” — “Be this as it 
may,” Mr. Sharp replied, “ I keep a good watch on my boy, and 
nobody ever saw him the worse for liquor.” — “ You deceive your- 
self, my friend,” said Parson Moody, “ this very last night he stole 
out of your back door, no doubt after you and your family were in 
bed, and in the society of some of the most abandoned boys, in tho 
village, was found intoxicated, at a dram shop in Tinker’s Alley.” 

When the evidence and statements of the good clergyman had 
removed every doubt of the fact from the mind of Mr. Sharp, he 
appeared to suffer the deepest distress, but expressed his determina- 
tion to inflict severe personal chastisement upon Aminadab. — “ My 
afflicted friend,” said Parson Moody, taking the hand of his parish- 
ioner, “ will such a course be even-handed justice 1 Your child has, 
without doubt, been misled. Ought not the weight of your dis- 
pleasure to fall upon the author of this deplorable mischief?” — 
“ Undoubtedly,” replied the agonized father ; “ have you any suspi- 
cion, reverend sir, which may lead to his detection?” This faithful 
counsellor, still holding him by the hand, replied, with an expres- 
sion of mingled pity and severity — ^^And Nathan said unto David 
Thou art the man!’’’' — The miserable father bowed down his head 
and burst into a flood of tears. 

5 


VOL. I. 


50 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


For the first time in his life, the image was fairly and faithfullr 
before him of all the horrible consequences of his own unsccountablc 
improvidence and folly. He had himself escaped, thus far, the 
shame and sin of habitual intoxication ; and he had counted, with 
perfect confidence, upon the same good fortune for his child. Ht 
had admitted into the calculation no allowance for difference of mora- 
power or physical temperament, to resist the destructive influencf 
of ardent spirit ; nor for the different kinds and degrees of temptatior 
to which they might respectively be liable ; nor for the fact, that h» 
himself had commenced, at the age of manhood, and that the experi 
ment was begun with Aminadab, when a^child. 

Mr. Sharp was in the condition of a man, who had disregardet 
the symptoms of some fatal disease, the knowledge of whose exist 
ence had cast an air of solemnity over the countenance of ever) 
friend ; while the sufferer himself, utterly unconscious how soon the 
lease of life would expire, sported with the flimsy remnant of exist- 
ence, as if it were only the beginning. What are the sensations of 
such an individual, when the physician reveals to him the fatal 
secret, or the first gush of blood from the lungs summons the mis- 
erable pilgrim to put his house in order ! Such were the feelings 
of this unhappy parent, when he first began to realize, that he might 
yet live to commit the bone of his bone and the flesh of his flesh, his 
first born and favorite child, to the drunkard's grave. 

His grief completely overwhelmed him. — “ I can pity you, and 
weep for you, my poor friend,” said the benevolent pastor, as the 
tears came into his eyes. — “Ah, sir,” exclaimed the unhappy 
father, ‘ ‘ you know not how often and how earnestly I have set 
before this boy of mine the hateful picture of a drunkard. It is true 
I have indulged him, in the temperate use of a little spirit, now and 
then, for the reasons I have mentioned ; but I have always cautioned 
him to be careful in the use of it. Alas, my dear sir, I now see 
that I have committed a sad mistake. But what is to be done to 
save my poor child from destruction]” — “That,” Parson Moody 
replied, “ is not only a most important, but, I fear, a most difficult 
question. Prevention is a simple thing ; remedy is often a very 
complicated and uncertain process. You have certainly, as you 
say, committed a sad mistake. If the paths of intemperance are 
indeed the gates of hell and the chambers of death, you have acted 
rashly, rny unhappy friend, in permitting your son to enter even but 
a little way. To be sure, you have cautioned him not to become a 
drunkard, but have you not pushed your child a little way over a 
terrible precipice, while you raised your warning voice to save him 
from falling into the gulf below ! Have you not encouraged him to 


A SECTARIAN THING 


5 . 


set fire to a powder magazine, and cautioned him to bum but a verj 
littleJ I would not harrow up your feelings ; but you have anothei 
son ; — your responsibilities to God are very great ; and so are mine, 
as your spiritual guide. It is possible I have already neglected my 
duty, in withholding that counsel, which I now earnestly give you, 
as a friend, and as a minister of the gospel ; — for the sake of your 
poor children, for the sake of society, for your own sake, my dear 
sir, I conjure you to abandon the use of ardent spirit, in all its 
forms.” 

During this solemn and touching appeal, Mr. Sharp had paced 
the room in great agitation of mind : at its conclusion, he grasped 
the hand of his reverend friend, and exclaimed, in a voice, inarticu- 
late for grief — “ Not a drop, ray worthy friend, not a drop shall 
enter my habitation, nor pass my lip, from this, the most miserable 
hour of my life.” — “ Amen,” said the holy man, “ and may God 
grant it may be the most profitable hour of your existence.” 

After a short pause, “ I hope,” said Parson Moody, “ to see the 
day, when you will be one of the most active and influential mem- 
bers of our temperance society.” — “In regard to that,” replied Mr. 
Sharp, “ I can give you no encouragement whatever. I have 
thought upon the subject and read some of their books, but I have 
come to the conclusion, that this temperance reformation, as they 
call it, is nothing but a sectarian thing. — “ And pray, my worthy 
friend,” said the minister, with a smile, in which solemnity and 
sorrow prevailed, “ what do you understand by a sectarian thing V 
— “A sectarian thing?’’' said Mr. Sharp; “ why I consider a sec- 
tarian thing to be a — I don’t know that I can exactly explain my 
meaning, but a sectarian thing is, I suppose, a — .” “ Well, well,” 

said Parson Moody, looking at his watch, “ I perceive I have 
already overstaid an engagement. I will call this afternoon, for the 
purpose of continuing our conversation.” — He took Mr. Sharp 
affectionately by the hand, and departed ; leaving him in perfect 
astonishment at his own entire ignorance of a term, which he had 
so frequently and so confidently employed. 

The petty mortification, arising from this circumstance, was im- 
mediately lost in the contemplation of that deep domestic affliction, 
whi<;h seemed to be drawing nigh. 

Mr. Sharp left the apartment to go in pursuit of Aminadab. He 
found, upon inquiry, that the boy was seen going, that morning, in 
the direction of the school-house ; and he resolved to wait fiir his 
return, at the dinner hour. He then sought the apartment of Mrs 
Sharp, whom he found engaged in the instruction of little Joel. 
Upon the first communication of this sad news, the tears came inta 


52 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


her eyes ; but she soon wiped them away, and turning to her hus 
band, “ I have shed these tears,” said she “ because I cannot sc'-e 
you weep alone ; as for that poor boy, he has had more already than 
his share of my tears and sighs. It has been, for a long time, the 
daily burthen of my prayers to God, that he would support us both, 
under this impending calamity; for I have expected it from the 
beginning. It was evident to me, long since, that Aminadab had 
acquired a fatal relish for spirit. What could I do? I would not 
reproach you, my dear husband, but, when I have seen him, so 
far the worse for liquor, as to be insolent and disrespectful, and 
have told him, that rum would make him a drunkard ; he would 
reply, ‘ Father drinks it, three or four times a day ; will rum make 
father a drunkard?’ When I have said to him, that he ought lo 
give it up and drink water only ; he always replied, with a sneer, 
‘Water m a sectarian thing, and father says so.’” — “Martha,” 
said Mr. Sharp, “ I have declared before our minister and before 
God, and I now say it before you, not another drop shall enter my 
habitation nor pass my lips. If I have been the means of ruining 
my poor boy. may God, of his infinite mercy, forgive me : we have 
another child, who shall never appeal to his father, for a justification 
of his intemperance ” Mrs. Sharp was greatly affected, and shed 
many happy tears, at this joyful resolution of her husband. There 
is something contagious in such matters, even with those, who are 
scarcely able to comprehend the moving cause ; little Joel rose from 
his cricket, and, putting down his book, reached up to kiss both his 
parents, with his eyes full of tears. 

When the dinner hour arrived, as Aminadab did not return, a 
message was sent to Master Lane, who stated, that the boy had not 
been at school, for more than a week ; that his previous absences 
had been very frequent ; and had been passed over, upon his state- 
mrmt, that he had been employed, in his father’s store. 

This intelligence was not likely to abate the anxiety of these 
jiihappy parents. They sat down to their meal, in silence and in 
sorrow. 

The table had scarcely been removed, when, according to his 
promise, the good minister entered their dwelling. Mr. Sharp 
acquainted him with Aminadab’s conduct, at Master Lane’s school, 
and that he had not returned, since the morning. It was supposed, 
however, that, conscious of his detection, he was strolling some- 
where in the village, and would not come back until bed-time. 

“ Now, my friend,” said Parson Moody, as soon as Mrs. Sharp 
had retired, and left her husband and the clergyman together; “ if 
we can strengthen our good resolutions for the feature, by an exami- 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


53 


nation of our past errors, and a calm contemplation of all that we 
have lost ; however painful the task, it is one of the most profitable 
exercises, in which we can engage. Suppose you had long been a 
member of the temperance society, and as zealous in promoting its 
important concerns, as you ever have been in the prosecution of your 
ordinary undertakings ; you would, in such case, neither have par- 
taken of ardent spirits, nor have had them in your house ; is it not 
altogether probable, that you would have been spared that affliction, 
which now wrings your bosom? You have one child, to preserve, 
and another, if it be possible, to reclaim ; you have resolved to aban- 
don the use of ardent spirit. This is well. Why have you done 
this? Have you been actuated by any religious, moral, or philan 
thro pic motive? Not at all. You have been moved, by a selfish 
regard to your own fireside, your own domestic welfare alone. 1 
urge you, as a man of good feeling, as a philanthropist, to reflect, 
that you owe something to your fellow-creature. Mr. Sharp, your 
influence is great, for good or for evil. Justifying their conduct by 
your example, there are undoubtedly other parents, in this village, 
who are now sowing the wind, and who shall reap the whirlwind 
like yourself: there are here other children, the children of those 
parents, who are moving rapidly along, on the rail-road to ruin. 
You have formed a good resolution for yourself; — proclaim it to 
the world, for the sake of your fellow-man. Go, and with a firm 
hand, set your name to the pledge of the temperance society. You 
say, that you have considered the temperance reform a sectarian 
things — “ Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sharp, “ I have always. supposed it 
was gotten up by the Orthodox, the Trinitarians ; and I was greatly 
surprised, when I first learned, that you had become interested in 
the cause.” — “You could not believe, that any good thing could 
come out of Nazareth,” said the clergyman. “ My friend,” he 
continued, “yow have honestly misused a term, which is nothing 
better than a crafty invention of the enemy, a mere watchword of 
opposition. Would you refuse to be saved from drowning, because 
the hand of rescue was extended by a Christian, whose religious 
sentiments were different from your own? Would you persist in 
perishing rather than be drawn out of the water, by a Trinitarian ? 
Some of the most useful and ingenious articles, in joirr factories, 
were invented by Calvinists, Baptists, and Episcopalians. V/hv 
do you permit them to be introduced? — they are sec tar mu il.ir.gi . 
An infidel discovered the secret of inoculation ; shall Vv e thriefore 
forego its advantages? We call ourselves liberal Ciiiistlano ; let us 
not forfeit that character, by any refusal, equally illibeiai and im- 
politic, to go along with our fellow-Christians, of any denomination, 
VOL. I. 5* 


54 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


in a great work of universal philanthropy.” — “ Your reasons, my 
dear sir,” said Mr. Sharp, “ are very persuasive.” — “ But I have 
been reasoning on a false presumption,” replied the minister; “ for, 
if the attempt to abolish the use of inebriating liquor be a sectarian 
thing, the prime mover and promoter of that sectarian thing was 
very far from orthodoxy ; Mahomet was not a Trinitarian. Even 
in modern times, the first president of the oldest temperance society 
in the New England States, the celebrated Samuel Dexter, was an 
Unitarian. Now, my good friend, neither you nor I, I am afraid, 
will be able to look into this matter more thoroughly than that great 
and learned man. The temperance cause furnishes a broad ground 
of neutrality, upon which men of every profession and of every faith, 
by working, shoulder to shoulder, in the cause of humanity, may 
learn a little of the high and holy mystery of loving one another. I 
will now leave you to your own reflections. The temperance book 
is at my house ; if you should decide to put your name upon the list 
of members, you can send for it; I shall press the matter no 
further.” 

Mr. Sharp thanked the good man for all his counsel, who, with 
a look of the greatest benevolence, shook him by the hand, and took 
his leave. 

The supper hour arrived, and Aminadab had not returned. The 
shades of evening began to gather, and the parents became alarmed 
for his personal safety. At length it was ascertained, beyond a 
doubt, that he had run away. One of his late associates, as bad a 
boy as any in Clatterville, gave the information, that Minny, as he 
was called by his companions, suspecting the object of the parson’s 
early visit, had listened at the key-hole, until he heard his father 
declare his resolution to give him a flogging, when he determined, 
as he said, “ to clear out.'^ Minny, the informant stated, had plenty 
of cash, for he had shown him the bills. The latter part of this 
intelligence induced Mr. Sharp to examine the writing-desk in his 
chamber. He found it had been broken open, and rifled of a pocket- 
book, containing about three hundred dollars in bills. 

Crim“ is a social creature. There are individuals, it is true, who 
appear he almost exclusively addicted to some particular vice ; but 
wlm WOP 1 3 ’T, •ill probability, have been equally infamous, in any 
other cepar^ment of iniquity, had time sufficed, and opportunity 
opc’i.’-td. "When the moral harrier is broken down, when a breach 
is opp"! n-a-.’e, uy the artillery of sin, the whole heart is not likely to 
be occupied by one solitary tenant. Crime, as we have said, is a 
BCoi.'>l crraiuro; it is gregarious, in a remarkable degree. Few 
there are who have passed through the higher degrees of infamy, 


A SECTARIAN THING 


55 


atid finally settled down for life, on a fellowship in the state prison 
who cannot remember the grog-shop, which was the primary school, 
where they received their elementary instruction. Aminadab had 
no sooner lost all respect for virtue in general, by becoming a tip- 
pler, than he lost all respect for his parents, and all fear of God; 
and became almost immediately an idler, a truant, a liar, and a thief. 

Such measures were employed as seemed best calculated to 
ascertain the direction he had taken, but in vain. 

Upon an early day of the ensuing week, Mr. Sharp waited upon 
Parson Moody, and expressed a wish to subscribe the pledge of the 
temperance society. The good man brought forth the book with 
the greatest alacrity, and placed it, with pen and ink, upon the table. 
It was the merchant’s usual custom to employ only the initial letter 
<tf his given name ; but, on the present occasion, he wrote Aminadab 
Sharp, at full length, with a heavy hand, and, doubtless, with a 
heavier heart. He admitted, with perfect frankness, to Parson 
Moody, that he had totally misapprehended the character of the 
temperance reform ; not because the subject was at all complicated 
in itself; but simply because he had not taken sufficient interest in 
the matter, to examine the nature of his early prepossessions against 
it. “ Experience has been to me,” said he, with a deep sigh, “ a 
severe instructor ; but the lesson will never be forgotten.” He laid 
d{jwn the temperance book, and took his leave. 

Shortly after his departure. Deacon Gurley called at the parson- 
age. It is to be regretted that the conduct of some other deacons 
should have excited unkind suspicions in the reader’s mind, as is 
probably the case, in regard to Deacon Gurley. But this respect- 
able man had never trafficked in broken constitutions and broken 
hearts. He was a steady supporter of the cause of temperance. — 
“ Good news. Deacon Gurley,” said the clergyman. “ Ah,” said 
the deacon, “ has neighbor Sharp found his son!” — “No,” replied 
Parson Moody, “ but he has found his conscience, poor man, which 
is even a greater gain ; he has signed the pledge of the temperance 
society.” — “ Can it be possible!” said Deacon Gurley ; “ bad luck 
for the dramsellers in Clatterville ; for neighbor Sharp never does 
anything by halves.” — “ Here it is,” said the good parson, taking 
up the book, — “but bless me, what is this! — he has not been 
sparing of his blotting paper, has he!” continued the minister, 
holding up an hundred dollar bill, which had been placed between 
the leaves. “ That is very well,” rejoined the deacon ; “ but fifty 
such would be less beneficial to the cause, than the force of his 
example, and the effect of those exertions, which he will certainly 
make, in its behalf. As I said before, Aminadab Slarp does 
woiiiing by halves.” 


66 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


llie deacon s predictions were speedily verified, to the letter 
Mr. Sharp was in nobody’s debt, and a great many people were in 
his. The importers, distillers, taverners, grocers, and retailers, 
with their retinue of tipplers and toadeaters, could in no way thwart 
or annoy him. He did not want their votes, for he would never 
consent to be a candidate for any office. He had a number of these 
people for his tenants ; they were all promptly notified, that their 
leases would not be renewed. He was the sole proprietor cf the 
principal hotel ; he made an immediate arrangement with the lessee, 
and converted it into a temperance house. No person was admit- 
ted to work in the factories, who would not pledge himself to abstain 
from ardent spirits. He did all in his power to circulate informa- 
tion, on the subject of the evils of intemperance ; and, whenever he 
passed a group of idle boys, he was sure to rouse their better ener- 
gies into profitable action, by throwing among them some good little 
book, or temperance tale. Several of Mr. Sharp’s tenants agreed 
tiy continue their leases, selling no ardent spirit. — “ Sharp is the 
word, now-a-dayji,” said an old, gray-headed, fiery-looking fuddler, 
as he turned off, disappointed of his dram, from the fourth grocery 
store, in a cold frosty morning; “if Clatterville folks put up with 
this, there ’s an end o’ the good old spirit o’ New England. If 
things goes on so, half the inhabitants will move over to Brandy- 
wine village afore Christmas, where thero ’s no sich sectarian non- 
sense a going on.” 

The old sinner was mistaken. Nobody moved over to Brandy- 
wine village, on account of the reformation in Clatterville ; and the 
improvement, in the manners and habits of the people, soon became 
a topic of universal remark. 

Days, weeks, and months rolled rapidly along, and no trace was 
discovered of the runaway boy. Before this dark cloud settled over 
his dwelling, Mr. Sharp had appeared, like Sir Balaam, to believe, 
that God’s good providence was a lucky hit. But he had learned 
an important lesson of the instability of earthly happiness. His 
pride had become humbled ; and he was now perfectly satisfied, that 
the world was not made for Caesar nor Aminadab Sharp. He now 
perceived that riches, even if they do not take wings and fly away, 
cannot buy back the peace of a broken-hearted father. The tongues 
of a thousand sycophants could not now charm away the bitter con- 
viction that he was the parent of a drunkard and a thief. Sad were 
the feelings of this unhappy man, when he reflected upon the origin 
and progress of this domestic calamity, and remembered the words 
of the holy volume, “Anc/ Nathan said unto David, Thou art th^ 
man!''' 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


67 


It was very natural, that, at the period of this calamity, Mr. Sharp 
In the compass of a few weeks, should have examined his own heart 
more carefully, than during the whole of his previous life. Such 
was certainly the fact. He was introduced to a new code of sensa- 
tions ; he began to have a practical understanding of the passage, 
which teaches the broken in spirit, that the help of man is a reed. 

In this season of affliction, he derived the greatest support from 
the consolations of an excellent wife ; he began fully to understand 
the value of the gem, which he had taken, for better for worse. It 
was about a month after the departure of Aminadab, that Mr. Sharp, 
returning home, in the evening, had retired privately to an apart- 
ment, connected with their sleeping chamber. As he was sitlirg 
there alone, ruminating on his misfortune, his wife entered her 
chamber with little Joel ; and, supposing herself within hearing of 
no being, but the Giver of every good and perfect gift, she proceeded 
to offer up her evening supplication. The yet unconverted husband 
eat listening to the prayers of a child of God. — He listened, for a 
while, in solemn and respectful silence ; but when, in a voice, 
scarcely audible for her sobs and tears, she asked of God his guid- 
ance and support, for a lost and a wicked boy ; and that he would 
sustain an afflicted father, and bring him into the fold in his own 
good time, he could no longer repress his emotions, but, rising from 
his seat, crept forward silently, and knelt by her side. 

On the subject of family prayer, this was no longer a house divided 
against itself; and many other good things were admitted, one 
after another. Joel became an uncommonly fine boy. He was 
carefully brought up in the way he should go, and there was no 
reason to apprehend, that he would depart from it, when he should 
come to be an old man. 

About five years and a half after the departure of their eldest son, 
Mr. Sharp received a letter from the chaplain of the State Prison in 

the state of , in the following words : — 

, Bee. Uth, 18 —. 

Dear Sir : 

Peter Jones, a convict in this prison, who is dying of consumption, 
has desired, that the enclosed may be forwarded to you, as soon as 
possible. Respectfully, your humble servH, 

^ W I . 

Aminadab Sharp, Esq., Clatterville. 

The enclosed letter was in the following words : — 

State Prison, Bee. 12, 18 — . 

Dear Parents : 

Receive the dying words of a wiched child. I have but little 
ttrength, and my words must be few.^ When I left you, I took th* 


58 


A SECTARIAN THING. 


Providence road, and came to New York, where my life was consumed 
in all kinds of dissiyaiion, while the money lasted, which I took from 
fathers desk. When it was all gone, 1 got into the company of those 
who put me in the way of getting more. I have two or three time, 
resolved to reform. At one time, I did not taste ardent spirits for 
three weeks ; I worked till I had earned almost enough to bear my 
expenses ho me I I kept out of the way of ardent spirit, for my han- 
kering was so great, that I was afraid I should not hold out. One 
afternoon, as I was on the wharf, a man came to speak to me, who 
had been drinking rum. I smelt his breath, and I could resist no 
longer. I went to the dram shop, and my earnings were soon spent. 
For the gratification of my appetite, I was induced to rob a gentle- 
man of his pocket-book, which brought me here. — Dear mother, God 
will reward you for all your good counsel, though it has been lost 
upon your poor boy. If I could only see you, it would be a comfort 
to me, before I die. I would try to muster strength to crawl out of 
my bed, and ask your forgiveness on my knees. — Dear father, don't 
hi little Joel have any spirit, but heed the last request of his dying 
brother. — I am known here only by the name of Peter Jones. 

From your unduliful son, 

AMIN AD AB SHARP. 

The conception of that anguish, which this letter produced, is 
only within the province of imagination. I have neither the hand 
nor the heart to give it form. “ O my dear husband,” said Mrs. 
Sharp, “ let us fly to this poor prodigal before he dies !” — It was 
determined to start, on the morrow’s dawn. — Anoilicr letter from 
the chaplain came in the midnight mail — the victim of a father’s 
imprudence was no more. 

The last account I received of this family was in the fall of the 
year 18 — . I then passed through the village; and, while the 
horses were resting at the inn, I noticed a gentleman walking slowly 
alone, with his hands behind his back, who, every now and then, 
shook his head, in a singular manner. — “ Who is that gentleman?” 
said I. — “ It is Mr. Sharp,” said the hostler, “ who lost his son : 
he is somehow melancholy, as you see ; and, as he goes along, he 
often mutters to himself, poor boy, poor boy! ” 

Joel has grown up an excellent young man ; and abundantly 
repays his mother, for all her maternal care. He is a pattern for 
all young persons in the village, teaching them, by his example, to 
honor their fathers and their mothers, that their days may be long 
»p the land whieh the Lord their God hath given them. 


GROGGY HARBOR 


•ailot, — not a drinking, swearing, gwajjering sailor, — HeaTen forbid. Nothin?, itpa* 
the idnd or the tea, can exhibit a more finished example of man’s improvidence ano Joliy, ifit n the 
Mnduct of those silly fellows, who divide the whole span of their existence into two unequal [nrts ; 
devotitj almost the whole of it to the severest labor and the most imminent peril, and a lew days, 
weeks, or months of intervening time, to unlimited debauchery. Such a sailor's life is truly a dosr's 
life, and his death is a do^'s death ; for, livin? and dyin?, a dronkard and a prulli?.ate are, mathe- 
matically, upon a level with the brutes that perish— savin? thi^'dgmeni. 

But I sometimes meet a fine lelluw, upon whose live oak timbers lime has been workin?, appar- 
ently to very little purpose, for sixty years Salted on the stocks, and with a salt, that shall never 
• ose Its savor ; or, in other words, imbued upon his mother’s knee, with those principles of relig- 
ious faith, which, amid all the storms of life, have proved the sheet anchor of the soul. \Vhelher I con- 
template the skill and prowess of this honest fellow, on his own peculiar element, or listen to those 
tales of the sea, with which a sailor can stir the landsman's heart, or mark his serene and dignified 
deportment, as he takes his seat in the house of God ; 1 never looked upion such an one as tliis, 
without a sentiment of alfectionale respect. 

“ Groggy Harbor,” like an accommodaring almanac, is calculated for the New England States ; 
but will answer for every part ol the woild. This little work was particularly written for a friend, 
with whose name I should be proud to adorn ii, if I had not an inveterate dislike of dedications. 
My reverend friend needs nothing of the kind from me. ll is enough for him to be permitted to 
enjoy the refiectiuns of a practical philanthropist; to guide his hardy followers to the ti'ing God, 
with little reverence for the forms and ceremonies of the present world ; and to win, for himself, em- 
phatically, the title of the friend of seamen, — (dr them an immortal crown. 

I must be indulged in a single remark, and then, under the blessing of Heaven, as I trust, I will 
cast my little book, literally, upon the waters. I have seen the sturdy group of weather-heiiieii men, 
who zealously attend upon the eloquent ministration of my worthy Irieml. When I have seen a 
thousand eyes at once, which have looked many a north-wester out of countenance, paying their trib- 
ute to the voice of nature and of eternal truth, I have said within myself, — I had rather be the 
preacher in lliis bethel, and draw one honest tear for my pains, than the aichbishop of Canterbury, 
with the reasonable expectation of a Stilton cheese, and a haunch of venison. 


The Orkney islands, the Orcades of the ancients, are separated 
from the northern extremity of Scotland, by a frith, not more than 
ten miles in breadth ; yet so limited was the intercourse between 
these islands and the main, one hundred and fifty years ag-o, that a 
Scotch fisherman was imprisoned, in May, for publishing- the account 
of the elevation of the Prince and Princess of Orange to the throne 
of England, the preceding November ; and he would probably have 
biien hanged, had not the news been confirmed, by the fortunate 
ai rival of a ship from Glasgow. 

At the period, to which we are about to refer, the communication 
was scarcely more frequent, between the metropolis of New Eng- 
land and the obscure little village of Fishingport, more familiarly 
known along the neighboring sea-coast, by the less attractive appel- 
lation of Groggy Harbor. Its exports consisted of fish, an^ 
imports were principally rum. So long as the Spring and Fall 
were sufficiently productive to procure for the iniiabiiauts at: 
supply of this important article, tvlth a suitable quautity of toBa/ro 
the rriajority of the people were perfectly satisfied To be su^e^ 
there was an aristocratical party, who, not contented with the pos* 


60 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


session of these necessaries of life, aspired after such luxuries aa 
flour, sugar, and molasses, and a reasonable quantity of winter and 
summer apparel. But by far the larger portion selected the more 
favorable intervals along the barren coast ; and planted,' here and 
there, patches of potatoes and Indian corn, literally struggling with 
the precipice for bread. The poor man’s pig, sacred in the eye 
of the law, and secured from the grasping creditor, was here ar 
important personage in every household ; and, although the poik 
of Groggy Harbor was proverbially fishy, yet with abundance 
of fish and potatoes, and plenty of rum, they were as happy as 
Hottentots, knowing little of the present world, and caring less for 
any other. 

There were inhabitants in Hishingport, of a very different order ; 
they were perfectly respectable, but they were very few. Of this 
number some continued to reside in a place, where so much was 
constantly presented of a painful and disgusting character, because 
of tbeir attachment to the place of their nativity, and to the posts 
and pillars of their youth. Others had determined to remove from a 
spot, possessing so few attractions, as soon as they felt ihemselves 
sufficiently wealthy ; an era which never arrived. And one or two 
still held on, unwilling to part with a distinction, which would not 
have followed them beyond the boundary line. 

Fishingport was provided, of course, with its municipal govern- 
ment. In this interesting village, there was something more than 
the requisite amount of lying, fighting, and cheating, for the estab- 
lishment of a lawyer’s office. There were two in full operation, 
whither the aggrieved fled for shelter, as sheep fly to the bramble 
bush, leaving half their fleece behind. 

The clergyman of the village was miserably paid, and frequently 
reminded, in an endless variety of ways, of the burthen, which he 
brought upon the parish. For once that he reminded his thought- 
less parishioners of their dependence upon God, they were sure to 
remind him twice of his own dependence upon them. Whenever 
he married a couple or baptized a child, they seldom sent him any 
ether present than a couple of haddocks. Indeed, Parson Twist 
wanted that independence of character, without which, no clergyman 
^vill be likely to sustain himself long, and profitably for his floclr 
He endeavored to please all parties ; and, of course, he did not tell 
his people the solemn truth. It was a common observation, in the 
viihgo. that his sermons were neither fish nor flesh. 

tt v.fls seldom the case, that any other craft was seen in the port, 
than such small vessels, as were engaged in the fishing business. In 
a severe storm, it was not uncommori for square-rigged vessels to 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


61 


seek an anchorage in the harbor, but they seldom communicated 
with the shorei It was therefore a subject of very considerable 
interest, when, upon a clear morning in October, with a cracldng 
Dreeze from the west-north-west, a ship of four or five hundred tons 
was seen standing round the “ Drunkard’s Ruin,” for that was the 
name of a reef, on which an intoxicated captain had perished with 
his whole crew, some forty years before. 

While the numerous idlers who crowded to the shore were giving 
their opinions, as to the character and object of this unusual visitor, 
she backed her topsail, lay to, about a mile from the end of the reef, 
and fired a gun for a pilot. But no pilot was at hand ; and it became 
a matter of debate, which soon rose to altercation, what should be 
done. The clergyman, who was roused by the sound of ordnance, 
while employed in finding a new text for an old sermon, upon the 
perfectibility of human virtue, surprised by so unusual an occurrence, 
upset the contents of his inkhorn upon some of the most interesting 
parts of his discourse, and, seizing his hat, was soon in the midst 
of a conclave, as clamorous and as contrary-minded, as the celebrated 
synod of Dort. The sudden apparition of the minister abated noth- 
ing of that eagerness, with which the disputation was carried on 
But every disputant appeared to feeljust enough respect for Parson 
Twist, to be willing to strengthen his argument, by the authority 
of the clergyman’s opinion. “ Look here. Parson Twist,” said a 
rough, red looking fellow, who had already seized a pair of oars, 
‘ the tide ’s setting in strong, and she ’s backing oji to the reef ; if 
she touches, she ’s gone ; don’t ye see how deep she is in the water. 
Parson? In less than two hours, I know by the glin, we shall have 
a real blow, right ashore.” — “Well,” said Parson TAvist, look- 
ing round cautiously upon the group, “ there is sorre^hir.g in v.’hat 
you say, Mr. Bean.” — “Ay, ay,” said an oid w.-cruer, avao 
liad taken the sea-shore, as a highwayman takes chc highway, for 
thirty years, “ this is her last trip, and ye can’t saAv. her, none of 
ye ; and if ye go within a hundred fathoms of tiie old hulk, they ’ll 
say ye run her on to the ‘Ruin;’ don’t ye think so, Parson:” 
“ Why, it is matter for reflection, Mr. Mooney,” replied the minis- 
ter ; “I cannot say but it is so, and 1 cannot say it is so.” “ 1 ’d 
fetch her in for a glass o’ grog,” said a wrinkled old fellow, Avitli a 
tariiaulin hat on the tip top of his head, who. even at that hour of 
tl e morning, was staggering under the influence of the rum-pusy . 
“ You fetch her in !” said another, who was not so groggy by nan ; 
“ ha ! ha ! ha ! do it, Billy, and I ’ll find the grog.” 

By this time the first speaker had thrown his oars into a whale-boat, 
wid, crying, “ Come, Parson, give us a shove,” with the assislaiice 

VOL. I. 6 


62 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


of two or three others, hauled her into the surf. At this moment, 
old Mooney, who had climbed up on a crag, that overh)oks the har' 
bor, cried out to those below : “ Ship your oars, my boys, that ’s an 
old salt off there, and if he has n’t run his jib-boom into this harbor 
albre, my name isn’t Mark Mooney.” — “ Why what is he about, 
Mark^” said Bean, who was in the act of shipping the boat’s rud- 
der ; at the same time, he observed in an under tone to his compan- 
ions, “ Bear a hand, the old sea-wolf only wants another wreck, 
and he ’d care no more for a dozen poor fellows dying in the suif, 
than for a dozen porpoises galloping there.” “Go on a foci’s 
errand then, if you will,” continued Mooney ; “ I tell ye, the old salt- 
water dog has got two boats sounding round the reef — there now, 
look for yourselves, round goes the topsail — see how she pays of!' 
— there she goes.” Sure enough, she was soon out of danger, 
and when she had given the “ Ruin” a better berth, she lay to 
again, for her boats to come aboard, and fired another gun. Shortly 
after, while Bean and his companions were about starting again, 
Mooney shouted from the crag, “You won’t get to sea to-day; 
here. Bean, come up aloft.” Bean jumped out of the boat, and ran 
up the cliff, and following the direction of the old wrecker’s finger, 
he saw Jim Dixon’s pinkey, under all sail, coming round the reef, 
from the back of the harbor, and standing directly for the ship. 
“ Well, well,” said Bean, as he came down from the crag, “ she ’ll 
be full as safe under honest Jim Dixon’s care, as though you or 1 
bad the charge of her, daddy : Jim knows the harbor, every inch of 
it, and would wreck his new pinkey any time, to save a brother 
sailor.” 

Jim soon ran up under the stranger’s lee ; and, in a very few 
moment?, she was under way, standing into the harbor. She soon 
h^jgan to lake in sail ; anej, in three quarters of an hour, was riding 
a* anchor, about tv/o cables’ length from the town. 

At this moment, the largest part of the population of Fishingport 
) collected upon the shore ; and curiosity had never been excited 
I'l such a pitch, unless when a vague rumor reached the village of 
tlte capitulation of Yorktown, full three months after that happy 
t cnrrence. 

.”m Dixon could scarcely get foothold upon the shore, for the 
*hi. ng, that pressed upon him with inquiries. “ Give us a little 
-'".h air!” said Jim, as he pushed forward among the crowd, with 
I 'z bravTiy shoulders, the mass of men, women, and children curl 
Fg in his rear, like the parted waters of the German ocean, roun 
tiiC 3tern of a Dutch dogger. Having attained an eminence, Jira 
turned round and addressed his fellow-citizens, in a short and sens 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


ble apoech, nearly as follows — “ Don’t bother a body to death, and 
ua a little sea roum. — All I know is jest this, that are craft is 
the Lane, last from Cadiz, the captain is the queerest sort of 

a. salt hsh, that ever swum. The first thing he says to me, 
v/h-.r: 1 t;ot upon deck, was this, ‘ Born in the harbor, my boy?’ 
So I raid him I v/as. ‘ Is old Peggy Lane alive? ’ said he. ‘ Ay, 
ay, ?Ir,’ said 1. ‘ Is friend PIphraim Simpson, the Quaker carpenter, 
aLi"e?’ ‘ Ay, ay, sir,’ said 1. ‘ Thank God,’ said he ; ‘ ready with 
the anchor, ray boys.’ ‘Now, captain,’ says I, ‘it’s a pretty 
sharp morning, let’s have a thimble full o’ grog, will ye?’ ‘My 
lad,’ says he, ‘you might as well ask a Highlander for a knee- 
buckle. There ’s not a drop aboard my ship, and there never will 
be, while I command her: but here is something for^your trouble.’ 
So he gave me two doubloons. A pretty good morning’s work, 
eh? — I forgot to say, that one of the crew told me he had sailed 
seven years in the Peggy, with the same master, and that the 
vessel was named after his old schoolma’am : they told me the 
captain’s name, but I ’ve lost it somewhere in my lubber-hole of a 
head, and that’s all I know about it.” “That ship named for 
Peggy Lane, the old schoolma’am!” cried an old Amazon, in a 
cracked voice, at the top of her lungs, with a scream of laughter, 
which was perfectly contagious, and exercised the whole group, 
for several minutes. “ Hand, reef, and steer without grog !” said 
he with the tarpaulin hat ; “ a hly-livered set, I ’ll warrant ye; ha ! 
ha 1 what would old skipper Hallibut say to that !” — “A finer set 
of fellows never went round-a capstan,” said Jim Dixon ; “ I didn’t 
hear an oath, the whole time I was aboard.” Mr. Simon Spicket, 
the little grocer, as a cunning spider places its web, in a thorough- 
fare for flies, had planted his shop at the head of the wharf, with a 
window each way, that he might shift his little parade of decanters, 
on the principle of a revolving light, as the fishermen came down in 
the morning, or returned in the evening. Anticipating an unusual 
run of custom, upon the arrival of the Peggy, in Groggy Harbor, 
ne had arranged his apparatus, and filled his decanters; and arrived 
among the crowd just in season to catch the last words. “ Bless 
my heart !” cried he, “ no spirit 1 I ’m sure I should n’t think it was 
safe to go to sea without spirit, in case of a storm or cold weather . 
never mind, I guess they ’ll make up for it on shore.” 

In about half an hour, a boat was lowered from the ship, and 
four sailors jumped into it, and waited alongside. In a short time, 
a person was seen coming over the side. “There,” said Jim 
Dixon, “that’s he — that’s the captain!” The boat now made 
for the land. All eyes were turned upon this object of univer- 


61 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


sal curiosity, as he stepped from the boat to the shore ; but n* 
person present seemed able to identify the stranger. Ke v/a.s 
apparently about forty-five, a strong, square-built man, with a sun- 
burnt visage, and an expression, in which there was nothing of 
severity, but something to overawe. “ Stand by, my latls,” said 
he to the boat’s crew. “ Ay, ay, sir,” was the reply. Recognis- 
ing Jim Dixon in the crowd, he asked him if old fneud Simpson 
lived on the hill, where he lived thirty years ago. Jim replied that 
he did, and offered to show him the way. “ No, my lad,” said he , 
“ I knew it well enough, before you ever smelt the salt water.” As 
he was turning off, he caught a glance of Mark Mooney, and calling 
Dixon, appeared to be making an inquiry, to which he simply 
nodded a reply. After he had gone, “ Daddy Mooney,” said Jim, 
“the captain knows the cut of your jib.” “Does he?” said the 
old wrecker,* “I thought he was dead nigh thirty years ago.’' 
“Why, who is he?” said Dixon. “ Oh, I can’t say as I know,” 
said the old man ; and putting a fresh quid into his mouth, he 
turned upon his heel, and w'alked silently away. 

Finding the boat’s crew were not likely to come upon the wharf 
without an invitation, Mr. Simon Spicket proceeded to do the 
honors of Croggy Harbor. So he came to the capsil, and rubbing 
his hands, “ Rather fallish,” said he. “ Ay, ay, sir,” said the old 
boatswain, who sat squatting on his haunches, in his shaggy pea- 
jacket, lika a grizzly bear, ready for any customer. “Got a nice 
fire in th-j ^itore; won’t ye step in, and warm your fingers?” “ No, 
thank y";, sir,” the old boatswain replied. “Got plenty of New 
England ar.d some choice old Jamaica,” continued Mr. Simon. 
“ No or'<^!iii?ion for any, I thank ye, sir,” replied the man of the sea. 
“ Have • little real Hollands if ye prefer it,” said the grocer. “No, 
no, my friend,” returned the old boatswain, with a growling tone 
of voice, which showed that his temper was getting a wiry edge. 
Mr. Simon Spicket, who knew that he had been licensed for the 
public good, w£»s not easily thwarted in his philanthropic operations. 
After a short absence, therefore, he returned to the charge, with — 
“ Some nice oLl cherry, or I can make ye a mug of flip.” “ You 
landlubber,” roared the old boatswain, who could stand it no longer, 
“who wants an/ of your brimstone and fire? you’re the devil’s 
pilot fish, and it I had you by the gills, I ’d make you swallow a 
bucket of salt wi-ter ; drop her down to a lower berth, my boys, till 
the captain cor'es.” Mr. Simon Spicket stepped back into his 
shop, and sat df wn, with the conviction, that there were people in 
the world, wh j could not be served. 

The captain had soon made his way to the top of the hill, and 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


6o 


found himself in front of a small white cottage with green blinds. 
It was easily recognized, as the residence of friend Simpson. It 
had been recently painted anew, and presented a remarkable con- 
trast 10 the surrounding habitations. The tap at the doei 
promptly answered : it was opened by a tall old man, with a cape- 
less coat, and a broad-brimmed hat, from under which the long 
straight hair descended on either side of the head, much whiter 
than the sheet, on which I am writing the present narrative. Each 
stood, in perfect silence, gazing at the other : at length, friend 
Simpson began, “Well, friend, what is thy business'?” “Why, 
don’t ye know mel” said the seafaring man, grasping old Ephraim 
by the hand, while the tears came into his eyes. “ Nay, verily,” 
replied the Quaker, “perhaps thee beest in error; who dost thee 
take me to bel” “Ephraim Simpson, to be sure,” rejoined the 
sailor, “the best earthly friend I ever knew, save one.” “And 
pray who may be that other?” said the old man. “ Peggy Lane,” 
replied the captain, “ who found me on the beach, after my parents 
were lost on the ‘ Ruin,’ just forty years ago, and was a mother to 
me.” “Billy Lane!” said the old man, in perfect astonishment; 
“ but it cannot be possible I” “ Billy Lane,” said the captain, still 
holding the Quaker by the hand, “ as sure as your good wife’s name 
is Margery, who was always kind to me, and who I trust is alive 
: nd well.” “Billy Lane!” repeated the old man to himself; 
“ however, there is a God above all, walk thee this way, friend, it 
may be as thee sayest.” So saying he led the way into the little 
parlor, and stepping out, for a moment, speedily returned with a tall, 
straight, particular body, who advanced directly to the strangtsr, 
and, looking him intently in the face, exclaimed in a shrill small 
voice, as thin as a thread, “ Can the sea give up its dead, before 
‘he account!” “ Why look here,” cried the captain, almost worn 
out with their obstinate incredulity, “ I believe I must go and try my 
luck with mother Lane,” as he had always called his preserver 
‘I guess she’ll know her poor Billy, as she used to call me.” 
* Sit thee still, if thou beest Billy,” said Margery Simpson; “ we 
lave sent for friend Peggy, and thee shalt soon see her here.” 
The stranger took out his pocket-book, and unfolding a small piece 
■)f paper, which he appeared to have carefully preserved, handed it 
!o the old man; “Do you remember that, father Simpson?” swd 
tie. The Quaker put cn his glasses, and, after examining the 
paper attentively, he lowered Ids brow, and, looking at the captain 
over his spectacles, “ Ya’Jy/’ said he, “ I believe thee sayest the 
iruth, this is my own hand; and I remember giving it to Billy 
Lane, when he made up his mind to seek his fortune on the sea, in 

VOL. I 6* 


66 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


preference to learning the carpenter’s trade ; Billy was a good boy, 
but all for the sea ; and, the morning before he went, he asked me 
to give him some good advice, on a piece of paper, that he might 
keep it to remember his old master. This is that paper, and I gave 
it to the boy with my blessing, thirty years ago. This advice ia 
not like common news, good only while it is new ; it reads well : 
‘ Say thy prayers;^ ” continued the old man, reading over the paper, 
“ ‘ read thy Bible; mind thy business; be good to the poor , city the 
laws ; avoid bad company ; drink no spirit ; let thy yea be yea, and 
thy nay, nay.’’ ” At this moment, old Peggy was making her way 
in at the door. “Is it my poor Billy?” said the old woman. 
“ Ay, ia it, good” — mother, he would have said, but his emotion 
checked his utterance, as he threw his arms round the poor old 
creature’s neck. “ Oh me,” continued old Peggy, “ if it is Billy^ 
how the little creature has grown ! Let me look at the back of hia 
head.” “Ay, good mother,” said he, “you ’ll find the scar 
there.” “ Sure enough,” she exclaimed, “ it is my poor boy, that 
I dragged out of the surf, that terrible day, when all but he were 
lost on the ‘ Ruin,’ and there is the mark of the cruel blow, that he 
got from the rocks, or, — Heaven forgive me ! from that savage 
shark of a” — “ Nay, nay, friend Peggy,” said Ephraim Simpson. 
“ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” “ And so it is,” said she ; 
“ poor boy, ye was about five then. I thought it would have been 
Solomon’s judgment over again, and that the wild sea would have 
had one half of the poor child, while I strove for the other ; but 
there was a greater than Solomon there, He that ruleth the sea, ana 
It was his holy pleasure to have it otherwise.” 

Captain Lane gratified the curiosity of his old friends, by giving 
them a brief account of his adventures. The brig, in which he first 
went to sea, was wrecked on the coast of Morocco. This fraction 
of his history, it seems, had reached the village of Fishingport. 
When th^ vessel struck, their preservation appeared altogether im- 
possible. The crew resorted, for oblivion, to ardent spirit, and 
were launched, one after another, dead drunk, into eternity. Billy 
remembered father Simpson’s injunction; and, putting the valuea 
paper between the leaves of his little Bible, he strapped the volume 
round his waist, and threv/ himself on a spar into the sea. He waa 
tossed in safety to the shore. Here he was taken by the natives, 
and carried into the interior, where he was detained more than eight 
years. He at length escaped ; and, travelling by night, and con- 
cealing himself by day, arrived on the sea-shore. He was fortu- 
nately taken off by an English vessel, and carried to Liverpcol. He 
there shipped, before the mast, for Sumatra and back. On the 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


67 


return voyage, the first and second mates both died, and the captain 
agreed with him to act in the capacity of mate. He then sailed for 
Calcutta, first mate of the Hindostan, Indiaman. His thrifty and 
careful habits and good principles soon placed him fairly before the 
wind, on the great voyage of life, with excellent common sense, for 
his compass ; the good old age of an honest man, for his port of desti- 
nation ; and the humble hope of eternal life, for his best bower ar chor, 
in a better world. He had amassed a handsome property, and was 
rasolvod to abandon the sea. “ Hundreds of times,” said he, “ in 
every quarter of the globe, and upon almost every sea, in sun- 
shine and in storm, I ’ve read over your seven good rules, father 
Simpson ; and here 1 am, by God’s blessing, safe in port, and 
anchored alongside the best friends I have in the world. Now it 
may seem an odd freak, for a fellow, that has had a capful of wind 
from every breeze, and been blown about the world, as I have been, 
to drop his last anchor, in Groggy Harbor. But I ’ve come home 
to live with ye, mother, for the rest of my days.” “ God bless ye 
for it, Billy!” said the old woman. “You’re too big now, dear, 
for the little room in the gable, where you used to lodge, you know; 
and, as I ’ve left off teaching the children, for ten years past, you 
can have your bed in the school-room.” Captain Lane shook the 
kind-hearted old creature by the hand, and bade her give herself no 
trouble about the bed-room. He then told them, that he would go 

aboard, and despatch the mate with the ship up to the port of , 

and return to pass a few days with his friends. 

The captain had scarcely quitted the dwelling of friend Ephraim, 
before it was literally taken by storm. Gossips and idlers, without 
number, flocked about the door, to satisfy their curiosity. As to 
the old boatswain, nothing could be gotten out of him. He held up 
his knowledge, as a cow of good resolution holds up her milk Man 
of business, as he was himself, he became wearied and disgusted 
with the sight of such a troop of idlers and ragamufiins, crawling 
about the grog-shop, like flies about a sugar hogshead, and becom- 
ing more and more tipsy, as the sun advanced to the zenith. A lit- 
tle out of patience withal, at being left so long upon his post, he 
had become as uneasy as a grampus, left upon a sand-bar, by the 
falling tide. 

in the afternoon, the captain’s chest was sent ashore, and carried 
to old Peggy’s house; and, shortly after, he followed, himself. Tt 
waa not long before the anchor was up, and the ship under way. 

soeedily vanished ; and with her, the high hopes and expe'^ta- 
tion.'i v; ivlr. Simon Sjiicket, that eminent distributor of death and 
ttcslruction by the gill. 


68 


tfROUGY HAKB0R. 


It was a bright day for old Peggy Lane ; and, as we have no 
gauge for the pleasure she enjoyed, we leave it to the reader’s imag- 
ination. In the evening, that is, at four o’clock, — for a village and 
a metropolitan evening are very different affairs, — she walked up to 
Ephraim Simpson’s, to take tea, leaning with great apparent satis- 
faction upon the captain’s arm; now and then casting a glance at the 
neighboring windows, as she went along ; and evidently gathering 
additional comfort from every eye, that she happened to encounter. 

The little urchin, whom she had rescued from a watery grave, had 
made an impression upon Peggy’s mind, at the age of tlirty, which 
would not give place to any other, at the age of threescore and ten ; 
and it was rather amusing to see the zealous old creature, in the 
pride of her heart, introducing to those, whom she met, as her “ pooi 
little Billy,” a stout master mariner of forty-five, with a pair of 
whiskers, that might have excited the envy of a Spanish admiral 

Friend Ephraim and his wife, with Peggy and the captain, 
enjoyed as much happiness, over the neat little tea-board, as could 
well be crowded into the compass of three or four hours. A thou- 
sand recollections were brought to life ; and important incidents, in 
the pilgrimage of one party, were freely exchanged, for the not less 
interesting experiences of the other. At length old Peggy and the 
captain returned to the schoolma’am’s cottage, where the school- 
room had been neatly prepared for his reception. After they had 
parted, and he had been for some time in bed, she opened the door, 
with, “ It’s only your mother, dear; I thought I would come and 
tuck ye up. I came just now, but I listened, and heard ye saying 
your prayers, like a good child, Billy ; and I rejoiced that ye had 
not forgotten all that I taught ye when ye was little.” With this 
and her blessing, she took her leave for the night. 

Captain Lane was up with the sun, and had taken a stretch 
across the town, before breakfast. “ Why, where have you been, 
Billy?” said the old woman, as he entered the door ; “ come, here 
is some hot coffee for ye, and a beautiful scrawd, and some cunners, 
that Tommy Loring, the little boy, that does my chores, has caught 
on purpose for ye, this very morning.” 

As he sat down to breakfast with a good relish, “ Mother,” said 
he, “I’ve just been across the harbor; the sun is n”t two hours 
high ; I ’ve been in a multitude of cities and towns of all sizes, in 
almost every part of the world ; and I never saw so many lazy, 
intemperate looking people, at this hour of the morning, in any place 
upon earth.” “ You know it always was so, my child,” said s^e ; 
“ Groggy Harbor will be Groggy Harbor; the name will sdek, till 
ye change the nature. It ’s bad enough to be sure. There are fcvi 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


69 


^Id- folks left among- us now. There is our next neighbor, Wiley, 
dying of a consumption, all owing, as the doctor says, to hard drink- 
ing. His father died just so. Watkins, the miller, watched with 
poor Wiley, last Friday night. Ye know, my child, they always 
leave refreshments for the watchers, and Watkins drank a whole 
bottle of Geneva, and was found in the morning, dead drunk upon 
the floor ; and poor Wiley groaned all night, with nobody to help 
him. Parson Twist preached a sermon against drunkenness, last 
year ; and he drew a picture of a drunken man, in his discourse ; 
the next day a great many went to him, and each one told him, if 
he made any more fun of him in the meeting-house, he would never 
enter it again.” “ Mother,” said the captain, “ this is too tough 
for me ; I shall heave up my anchor, if it ’s going to blow a drunken 
hurricane, at this rate, all the rest of my days. I ’ll go up to father 
Ephraim’s and talk with him about it, and see if we can’t boxhaul 
some of these craft, that are head on for destruction, since theie ’s no 
mode of getting ’em about, the old-fashioned way. At any rate,” 
he continued, observing that poor old Peggy appeared dejected, at 
the bare possibility of a separation, “we shall never part company 
again, my good mother, unless, upon a signal, that all must obey.” 

He found the Quaker and his wife reading their Bible together. 
“ Sit thee down, Billy,” said the old man, and continued to the end 
of the chapter. When he had finished and laid aside the book, the 
captain observed, that he should like to hear a few more particulars 
of those whom he had once known. “ Pray,” continued he, “ what 
has become of Sam Legget, who worked with me in your shop, 
father Simpson?” “Poor lad,” said the Quaker, “he did very 
well till they made him a corporal in the militia ; his whole soul 
seemed then to be absorbed in military glory ; he never made a good 
joint after that ; he was out treating and trooping a great part of his 
time, and became good for nothing. I have often caught him, after 
1 had laid out his morning’s work, shouldering firelock, and going 
through his exercise with a handsaw. Poor lad, he died a drunk- 
ard.” “ What became of Peter Watson, who lived over the way?” 
“ Watson became intemperate, as well as his wife ; they came upon 
the town ; both are dead ; and their children are in the poor-house.” 
“ And Barnes, the blacksmith?” continued the captain. “ He yet 
li/eth,” said the Quaker; “ he was put into the work-house more 
than ten years ago, and is rjubiect to that kind of deliriupi, which 
afilictetb the iotr-mp»:Tate.” “ ’A' bat a scourge intemperance has 
been upon the eaitii !” the captain ; “ why poor oM Par- 

son Merrit must have had ill lu k in turning the wicked to repent- 
ance.” “It is noi 'igrf-vablj,” reioinad Uoi cis-i iDau, “ to speak 


/ 



70 GROGGY HARBOR. 

that, which is evil of any, especially of those, who preaeh the 
gospe* ; but few had greater occasion than friend Merrit, to cry out, 
in the words of holy writ, Pray for us. He was verily a man of 
like passions with ourselves. He fell into intemperate habits before 
he died.” “Is it possible!” exclaimed the captain; “but pray, 
who is that wretched object, the woman yonder, who is bowing, in 
a strange manner, to everyone she meets — you see her dancing 
along, don’t you?” “Yea, Billy, I see the poor unhappy child; 
she is harmless ; and they let her go her own way,” replied the old 
man. “ Ah,” said Margery Simpson, who had risen from hei 
chair, and was looking at this poor being, who had decked herself 
with fall wild flowers, and appeared wonderfully merry; “ah,” 
said she, “ the poor thing is in her happy vein to-day ; to-morrow, 
no doubt, you may see her sitting between the graves of her hus- 
band and her son, and dividing those dowers between them, with as 
much care, as though she were dividing a treasure into equal 
parts.” “ Surely, Billy,” said old Ephraim, “ thee rememberest 
Jenny Jones.” “ Is that miserable creature Jenny Jones,” said 
the captain, “ the pretty girl wdth red cheeks and black eyes, whose 
fine voice I used to talk about, when 1 came from meeting?” 
“Yea, verily,” replied the old man. 

By the aid of a mischievous memory, the captain had before him 
a perfect vision of the past : he almost beheld the trim little girl, 
with her blue gown and neat straw bonnet, with her singing-book 
in her hand, tripping across the green, of a Sabbath morning. The 
very peal of the village bell rang, at that moment, in his ear ; 
and he beheld the countenances of the loiterers about the porch. 
All these associations came at once upon his mind, and, contrasted 
with the emblem of misery before him, brought the tears into his 
eyes. “ Is she intemperate?” he inquired. “ Nay,” said his old 
friend. “ I never heard, that she was ; her tale is a brief one ; she 
married Jack Lawson, the fisherman, against her father’s will : poor 
old farmer Jones, he was broken down by his family trouble, when 
Jenny los. her reason. Jack Lawson was a handsome lad, but in 
a bad way from his youth. He soon died a profane drunkard, and 
left her a widow, very poor, with a child to support. Bad as he 
was, Jenny took his death deeply to heart : their loves were young 
lo/es, Billy; and nothing roused her, but her sense of duty to the 
child. .Sue called it John, after the father. She worked very hard, 
and supported herself and her boy ; and I never heard a word 
aoamst hei. Little John fell ea'lv iatc the society cf bad boys, and 
acqvir.e.1 a lelish for spirit. Thee, no dom>t„ r-^memberest Jerry 
Tappit, that kept the little grog-.®k '0 in liOt’s alley?” “ The fel- 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


7] 


l(»w who lost his eye in a brawl?” said the captain. “ The same,” 
replied father Ephraim; “poor Jenny knew, that her son had a 
great amount of spirit at Tappit’s shop, and she had often forbid 
him. At length, John was brought home dead. He was killed 
with a stone, in a drunken fight, in Lot’s alley. Jenny gave a 
shriek, when she first saw the dead body of her child ; but her rea- 
son was gone, from that hour. A mercif^ul Providence extinguished 
the lamp, that she might not so clearly survey the measure of her 
misery. From that time, she was in the habit of going, three or 
four times a day, to Jerry Tappit’s shop ; sometimes forbidding him 
from selling John any more liquor, as though he were still living ; 
or asking if her boy was there ; and, at other times, in the most 
beseeching manner, urging him to go with her and help wake up 
her poor Johnny. Jerry was greatly annoyed by the poor creature, 
and once he threatened to beat her, if she came there again ; but Jim 
Dixon, who was passing by at the lime, threatened, in his heathen- 
ish way, to knock in his deadlights, if he so much as laid the weight 
vt his finger upon a hair of her head; ‘You have killed her boy,’ 
said he, ‘and now ye would kill the poor creature herself.’ ” “It 
was unseemly, no doubt,” said old Margery, “ for Dixon to talk, 
in that inconvenient way, or to threaten bodily harm ; but all agreed, 
that it was kind in him to interfere, and save crazy Jenny from 
abuse ; and the more, as it was well known she had refused Jim 
Dixon for Jack Lawson’s sake.” “ Jim Dixon?” said the captain, 
as he rubbed away the tears from nls eyes, “ that ’s the young man 
that brought my ship into the harbor ; a smart young fellow, but 
even he asked for his dram, before the anchor was down.” “Yea,” 
said old Ephraim, “ the very best of them think it impossible to live 
without it ; but Jim is decent and well to pass in the world, and a 
civil, obliging lad.” “ And where,” said the captain, “ is the man 
who kept the tavern, at the sign of the Demijohn?” “ Dear me, 
Lilly,” said father Ephraim, “which one dos’t thee mean? nearly 
twenty, I should think, have kept the Demijohn tavern, since thee 
wentest away ; and I do not remember but two temperate men 
among them : there was Gookin, I never heard that he was ever 
drunk ; he had an amazing strong head. He had kept the house 
only three days, when he was arrested for stealing a horse, the 
year before. And there was a Mr. Barker, who tried it for a fort 
night; and, hearing that a man had hung himself, after getting 
drunk at his house, he became conscience-stricken, and gave up the 
business.” “ Do tell* me, father Simpson,” continued the captain, 
“ what was the end of Windsor, the barber?” “ His was an awtui 
case,” replied the old man; “he became intemperate, and cut so 


72 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


inaj\y of his customers, that he lost his business. Thee remember- 
est ’Miah Fidget ; he was a fiery little fellow ; Windsor, once, when 
he was shaving Fidget, and very tipsy, cut him terribly. Fidget 
di*;’ not bear it like a Christian, Billy, but gave the poor barber a 
terrible flogging. Windsor became a miserable sot, lost every cus- 
x)mer, murdered his child, and his wife, and cut his throat, with his 
own razor.” “ Mercy on us !” said Captain Lane ; “ I should almost 
think you were reading the log-book of Gomorrah : but do tell me 
what became of Archer, the apothecary]” “ Died a drunkard,” 
father Ephraim replied. “ He was rather careless long before he 
died. Parson Merrit applied to him for a dose of magnesia, and he 
gave him a heaping tea-spoonful of tartar emetic, and it nearly 
killed him.” “ I will ask after one more ; how did Moses Mattock, 
the sexton, turn out!” “ Very badly, Billy, I am sorry to say it. 
It was thought he would have done pretty well, had it not been for 
the imchristian practice of treating, at funerals. The Poodle fami- 
ly, who, thee mayest remember, were very poor, and stood in great 
need of everything but pride, never forgave Moses, for his shocking 
misdemeanor, when their grandmother was buried. When the ole 
lady had been lifted, and put upon the hearse, Msoes, who had 
taken more spirit than usual, for the Poodles treated very freely, to 
keep up their respectability, instead of driving to the grave-yard at a 
decent pace, forgot himself and the occasion entirely, and, setting 
off upon a trot, drove the old lady, to the scandal of the mourners, 
to the door of Deacon Atherton’s grog-shop. This conduct was 
more offensive to the family, because it was the very shop where 
the old lady had all her Jamaica.” 

“ Pray,” said the captain, after a pause of some length, “ are 
there more or fewer drunkards, in the harbor now, than when I 
was a boy]” “I think the increase of drunkards is beyond the 
increase of the people,” answered the old man. “ Now, father 
Simpson,” said Captain Lane, drawing his chair more closely to the 
old man’s, and taking him by the hand, “ look here ; I ’ve no kith 
nor kin, that I know of, in the world. There ’s nothing that would 
suit me better than casting anchor, for life, alongside of you and 
mother Lane. By God’s blessing, I ’ve enough and to spare. But 
nothing will persuade me to look for moorings here, unless we can 
contrive a plan to change the nature of the bottom.” “ I c..nipre- 
hend thee,” said the Quaker, “ there are yet a few, in this place, 
who would lend a willing hand in a godly work. They wisely 
know, that their strength is in sitting still, ^ud waiting for the ap- 
pointed time.” “The spirit moveth me, Billy,” said Margery, 
to say thee mayest be the means, in the hand of Providence, of 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


73 


working a wondrous change, in a wicked place.” Thee hast seen 
enough of the world, my son,” said the Quaker, “ to know, that it 
is necessary to be careful in removing the idols of any people, 
whether they be worshipped, under the form of a stone image or a 
stone jug. The temples of Baal were protected by the laws of the 
land* so are these modern abominations, wfeieh we call grog-sh(ps. 
Those, who minister to the ‘ Public Good,’ may well rely on the 
public support.” “ I should like to have those fellows, that are 
making all this misery, on board my ship for a couple of hours. 
I ’d keelhaul every mother’s son of ’em,” said Captain Lane ; and 
he really looked as if he would. “ Well, Billy,” continued old 
Epljraim, with a smile, “ I think I may safely say, there is not one 
of them, who will go on board thy ship for any such purpose. 1 
cannot deny, when I look upon their work, that they deserve their 
reward : but we must obey the laws.” “ I know it, father Simp- 
son,” rejoined the honest-hearted sailor ; “ but, as you used to say, 
out of the heart the mouth speaketh. Why not speak to the select- 
men, and get the town clerk to pipe all hands and overhaul the 
matter?” “ Hast thee not read of Satan rebuking sin?” said the 
old man. “ The selectmen are all three dealers in spirit ; and the 
town clerk keepeth the Demijohn tavern, at this present time 
Nay, Billy, the better way would be, to collect as many of the men, 
women, and children, as can be gathered together, and enlighten 
their minds, by discussing the subject in a Christian manner ; but 
the difficulty lieth in this, we have no speakers on our side. Par- 
son Twist will be lukewarm in the matter, and though he would 
take an active part, if it were likely to be popular, it will be just 
the other way. Teazle, the lawyer, will make a long speech, in 
favor of the dram-sellers ; nobody will have courage to answer him, 
and I fear we may be worse off, than if we had never stirred in the 
matter at all.” “ Father Ephraim,” said the sailor, slapping his 
hand upon the table, “ give yourself no trouble about a speaker : 

I must go up to , to look after my vessel and cargo ; arrange 

your meeting, for this day week ; and I ’ll be here upon the spot, 
and bring ye a speaker ; and if any lawyer in Groggy Harbor can 
get the weather-gauge of him, never trust me again.” “ And pray 
Billy, who may he be?” inquired the old Quaker. “ Leave that 
to me,” he replied ; “ give me credit, father Simpson, for a little 
discretion, after having been knocked about, for thirty years, among 
Jews and Gentiles. Only get the whole town together, in the meet- 
ing-house. Charter a hundred of the lazy loons I see about the 
streets, and send notices to all quarters, and leave the rest to me.’ 

VOL. I. 7 


74 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


“Heaven guide thee, my son,” said the old man; “something 
telleth me it should be so ; I will do even as thee sayest.” 

Ephraim Simpson fulfilled all his ordinary engagements to the 
letter. Upon the present occasion he was particularly active ; and 
he was rejoiced to find a larger number than he expected, who were 
willing to cooperate in this good work. One was roused, l.y tlie 
recollection of a ruined child ; another was urged on to the holy 
war, by the remembrance of a parent, whose gray hairs had been 
Drought to the grave, with less of sorrow than of shame ; a third 
was stimulated, by the living emblem of squalid wretchedness, in 
the person of a drunken brother, or a drunken sister ; a fourth had 
long sighed for this very occasion, to break forth against a curse, 
which had destroyed the peace of his fireside, and left him, the 
husband of an habitual drunkard. Eriend Ephraim had good rea- 
son to be cheered by the result of his labors, thus far. The select- 
men were, at first, opposed to granting the use of the meeting- 
house ; but finally consented, in the full confidence of giving the 
as the friends of temperance were called, a complete 
overthrow. Notices of the intended meeting were posted up, in 
various parts of the harbor, and no pains were spared, to ensure a 
full attendance : it was particularly stated, that a distinguished friend 
of temperance, not resident in the town, would deliver his senti- 
ments upon the occasion. 

The next day, notices were put up in the following words : “ At 
a large and respectable meeting of the grocers of Groggy Harbor^ 
held last evening, at the store of Mr. Simon Spicket, it was unani- 
mously resolved, that we view with deep regret the proceedings of the 
self-styled friends of temperance.^' This resolution was signed, 
Simon Spicket, Chairman. Mark Mooney, jun.. Secretary. The 
effect of this notice was rather to increase the notoriety of the con- 
templated meeting, and to stimulate the little band of Spartans to 
redoubled exertions. 

Parson Twist, as the meeting was to be held in his house of wor- 
ship, had been requested to open it with prayer. He excused 
himself on the score of indisposition, and expressed a fear that the 
friends of temperance were going “#oo fast and too far:" accord- 
ingly, the Rev. Mr. Sterling, from an inland town, was invited to 
attend, and cheerfully accepted. 

The thirty-first day of October arrived, the day appointed for the 
meeting, and a more delightful faJ.1 morning I never beheld. The 
hour appointed was one o’clock, p. k., and, for more than two hours 
preceding, chaises, wagons and saddle horses were seen arriving from 
aJl quarters, and multitudes of men, women, and children on foot; 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


76 


and, before the time appointed, it was calculated, by competent 
judges, there were just about ten times the number collected, that 
commonly attended on the sermons of Parson Twist. 

No person, at this moment, was apparently so very uneasy, as 
fathei Ephraim. He repeatedly went to the door, and looked up 
and down the road, with an air of anxiety. At length the meeting 
was called to order, and old Captain Barney, a respectable officer, 
who lost an arm in the Revolution, was appointed chairman. It 
was moved and seconded, that the meeting be opened with prayer, 
by the Rev. Mr. Sterling, and by reading such portion of Scripture, 
as he might think appropriate. The venerable man was ascending 
the pulpit stairs, for the performance of the duty required of him, 
when friend Ephraim Simpson’s anxiety was relieved, by the appear- 
ance of Captain Lane, entering the door, followed by a large, hard- 
favored man, about sixty years of age, with a rolling gait, and 
wearing a shaggy pea-jacket. Jim Dixon, who knew Captain Lane 
and the boatswain, provided them with seats. 

Never was an unsettled assembly reduced more immediately into 
a state of silence, than was the promiscuous group, convened upon 
the present occasion, by the first words, distinctly and impressively 
uttered by the Reverend Mr. Sterling. “ Oh Lord, what is man !” 
and the pause which succeeded was the silence of the grave. His 
prayer was marked by an unusual tone of deep religious sensibility. 
Every irrelevant feeling in the audience was subdued, as by a spell. 
Even Squire Teazle, the attorney, who had entered the meeting- 
house,, with a consequential, and even a triumphant expression, as 
though he had somewhere discovered already an omen of victory, 
was evidently made to feel that he was in the temple of the Lord ; 
that the cause to be tried was not simply a question between 
man and his fellow, but between God and man. After the prayer, 
the holy man read, in a solemn and interesting manner, the one 
hundred and seventh Psalm. The effect was evident upon the whole 
assembly, when he pronounced those appropriate passages from the 
twenty-third to the twenty-eighth verse : “ They that go down to the 
sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters ; these men see 
the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For at his word 
the stormy wind ariseth, which Ufteth up the waves thereof. They are 
canned up to the heaven, and down again to the deep ; their soul melt 
eth away because of the trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger 
like a drunken man, and are at their ivifs end. So when they cry 
unto the Lord in their trouble, he delivereth them out of their distress. ’ 

The rum party, knowing that Captain Barney had always been 
in the habit of using spirit, had counted on his influence ; or, at 


76 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


least, that he would not be against them. They were confounded, 
therefore, when, in opening the meeting, he plainly stated, that, 
whatever good ardent spirit produced, the evi. A^as so much greater, 
that he should not be sorry to know, that it was all cast into tho 
sea. He clearly set forth the objects of the meeting, and requested 
any persons present, strangers as well as residents, to express their 
opinions. He then resumed the chair, and a pause of some length 
ensued. 

At length, a good-looking man, rather above the middle age, rose, 
with an air of diffidence, and addressed the chairman. “ Nobody 
seems willing to say anything upon this business,” said he, “ and 
I ’ll trouble the meeting with a few words. My farm, as you know, 
Mr. Chairman, is three miles from the harbor. If it had been thirty, 
I might still have been the father of two likely boys, who fell vic- 
tims to habits of intemperance, contracted by visiting the harbor, 
and the dram-shops. I have no plan to propose, to remedy the evil, 
which is every year carrying young men, as well as old ones, to 
their graves. I trust some remedy will be provided. I came here 
to give my humble experience, and have nothing more to say.” 

The next person who addressed the assembly was Mr. Mixer, the 
keeper of the Demijohn. “ Mr. Chairman,” said he, “ farmer 
Jenkins, who has just spoke about his boys, feels a kind of ugly 
towards me, because his boys got liquor at my tavern : now” — 
“ Stop, Mr. Mixer,” said the chairman. “You are out of order: 
the only points to be considered are the evils of intemperance and 
their remedy ; we can have no personal allusions.” “Well, sir, all 
I has to say is this, let folks keep their boys at home, and keep at 
home themselves if they will. I ’se got a license, and why ha’n’t 
I as good a right to sell liquor with a license, as farmer Jenkins has 
to sell his corn without one? That ’s all I want to know.” This 
produced a little cheering among the rum party, which was promptly 
checked by the chairman, who remarked, that the meeting had been 
begun in a Christian spirit, and that, while he was in the chair, it 
should so be continued and ended. Two or three persons, in liquor, 
had risen to add ress the chair ; but this remark and the well known 
character of Captain Barney reduced them to order. 

Silence having been restored, Mr. Teazle, the attorney, com- 
menced a speech of nearly an hour’s length. The commencement 
was rather unfortunate. “I rise,” said he, “Mr. Chairman, not 
admitting, on behalf of my clients, any responsibility to this assem- 
bly.” “Pray, Mr. Teazle,” said the chairman, “you speak of 
your clients; by whom have you been retained?” 'Veazle was 
ebviouslv confused, and Spicket hung down his head . I beg par- 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


77 


don,” continued th«i attorney, “ my fellow-townsmen, I should have 
said.” The points of his argument were these. The traffic is a 
lawf il traffic, and we have no right to interfere with it ; — people 
may drink or not — they are free agents ; and, if they become drunk 
ards, the fault and its consequences are their own ; — temperance is 
a good thing, and liquor ought not to be sold to drunkards, and the 
law foibids it ; — if we want any remedy, beyond a man’s own moral 
power of self-restraint, we must ask it of the legislature ; — combi- 
nations to ruin the business of a particular class of men are illegal 
and morally wrong. Mr. Teazle ran over these gr«)unds of argu- 
ment, in every variety of way ; and, to do him justice, with not a 
little ingenuity. When he concluded, there was much satisfaction 
exhibited on the countenances of the dealers, and their numerous 
customers. 

The chairman, after a long pause, again requested any person 
present, who might be so inclined, to express his sentiments upon 
the subject. Seeing no other person disposed to take part in the 
discussion. Captain Lane rose from his seat. He was already 
known to many who were present, though he had not had any 
opportunity of meeting them in a familiar way. “ Mr. Chairman,” 
said he, “ it is not my intention to detain you many minutes. Forty 
years ago I was cast away on the reef, ever since called the 
‘ Drunkard’s Ruin.’ By the misconduct of an intoxicated captg,in, 
the whole crew and several passengers, among whom were both my 
parents, were drowned. I was then about five years old. I see in 
this assembly the friend who saved me from a watery grave, and 
proved to me a kind mother. I also see here another friend, who 
took me into his family, to learn a trade, which I, afterward quitted, 
for the sea. When we parted, he gave me much good counsel ; 
and, knowing the temptations of a sea-faring man, he particularly 
cautioned me to drink no spirit. I have never tasted a drop in my 
life. I have been a healthy, and a prosperous man. I returned 
here but a short time since, with the intention of casting anchor for 
life. I have been in many harbors, in the course of thirty years, 
but I confess, Mr. Chairman, I have never seen a town, where 
drinking spirit seemed to be so much in vogue, and so completely 
the chief end of man, as it seems to be here. I move that it is expe- 
dient to get up a society forthwith, to put down this wickedness 
and folly, in some way or other.” 

The captain’s motion was seconded by several voices, and it was 
evident that he had made a favorable impression on the assembly. 

The chairman then stated the motion, as usual, and that it had been 
seconded from various quarters. In the mean time, Ephraim Simp- 

VOL. I. 7 * 


78 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


son walked round to Captain Lane, and whispered, “ Hast thee not 
failed in thy promise of a speaker, Billy?” “All in good time; 
he ’ll be here as soon as he is needed,” was the reply. Friend 
Simpson returned to his place, and with his broad-brimmed hat upon 
his head, addressed the chairman, in the following words, which 
were listened to with all that respect, which infallibly gathers about 
the person of an old man of pure and irreproachable life. “ Friend 
Barney,” said he, “ the Spirit moveth me to say a few words. I 
like the motion ; it is meet and right. If it prevaileth, and I think 
it will, for the finger of the Lord is suiely in this matter, thee may- 
est live to bless the day, and so may we all, when this poor, perisli- 
ing child was cast upon our shore. This is a great question, friend 
Barney ; it is not a question of dollars and cents, but a question 
of life and death, eternal life and eternal death.” At this moment, 
the attention of every person in the assembly was drawn suddenly 
to the door, by a sharp, shrill cry, and poor Jenny Jones was seen 
standing at the entrance. “ Will nobody go and help me wake lit- 
tle Johnny?” said she. Some kind-hearted person led her gently 
out of the way ; and friend Simpson continued, as follows, while she 
was passing out of the door ; — “It seemeth as if that poor sense- 
less creature had been sent hither, by the direction of Heaven. 
Thee seest in her, friend Barney, the melancholy effects of this 
deplorable business. The poor thing hath lost her husband, she 
hath lost her son, she hath lost her reason ! Thee feelest, I see 
thee dost, friend Barney, and we all ought to feel the force of that 
rebuke upon our past indifference, which is presented, wherever this 
wretched woman showeth herself.” Friend Ephraim resumed his 
seat, and Captain Barney was not the only person who had put his 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

“ Mr. Chairman,” said Mr. Sulkey, one of the selectmen of the 
town, “ I am no speechmaker, but I cannot see things going on at 
this rate, and keep my seat. If Captain Lane thinks proper to settle 
down among us, very well ; but he must take us as he finds us. 
We want no new-fangled notions. Why should we setup to be 
wiser than our fathers ? Rum sometimes does mischief, and what 
good thing doesn’t, I want to know? Folks that don’t like our 
notions can go elsewhere ; that ’s all I have to say.’ 

“ Oh, Captain Barney,” cried an old lady of respectable appear 
ance, with tears in her eyes, “ I never see that man, without think- 
ing of my poor George, that was ruined at his store.” The chair- 
man interrupted her by stating, that it would be hardly proper for 
females to lake part in the debate. He then observed, that it would 
be very agreeable to the assembly to near the subject treated more 
fully, by any person, on either side of the question. 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


79 


Captain Lane again rose ; and the general expectation of a speech 
of some length, was entirely disappointed by the following brief 
remarks. “ Mr. Chairman,” said he, “ I do not feel myself able 
to treat the subject as it deserves. But there is a person in this 
assembly, who has had occasion to think deeply upon it. He is 
here by my request. He has been the boatswain aboard my ship 
for thirteen years ; and, if you will put up with plain common sense, 
and allow a little for the language and manner of an old sailor, he 
will be willing to give you his views.” 

The chairman said, he had no doubt it would be very agreeab h 
to the meeting. “ Mr. Morgan,” said Captain Lane, “ our friends 
here will be glad to have you express your sentiments on the use 
of strong drink.” “ Ay, ay, sir,” said the old boatswain; and all 
eyes were turned upon him, as he rose, in his shaggy pea jacket : 
and, with his clean shirt-collar, and tidy black sillc neckcloth, loose, 
gray locks, and sedate expression of face, he might have passed for 
the very patriarch of the flood. So far as external appearance and 
professional relation were concerned, this was the very orator for 
Groggy Harbor. It was clearly indicated, in the countenance of 
friend Ephraim, that he was fearful of the result. But the confi- 
dent expression, on the features of Captain Lane, seemed to say, 
“ It ’s old Morgan’s watch, and I ’ll sleep at my ease.” 

“ Please your honor,” said the old boatswain, “ I ’ve come down 
here by the captain’s orders ; and, if there ’s anything, stowed away 
in my old, weather-beaten sea-chest of a head, that may be of any 
use to a brother sailor, or a landsman either, they ’re heartily wel- 
come. If it will do any good in such a cause as this, that you ’ve 
all come here to talk about, ye may go down below, and overhaul 
the lockers of an old man’s heart'. It may seem a little strange, that 
an old sailor should put his helm hard-a-port to get out of the way of 
a glass o’ grog ; but, if it was n’t for the shame, old as I am, I ’d be 
tied up to the rigging, and take a dozen, rather than suffer a drop to 
go down my hatches.” By this time all eyes and ears were riveted 
upon the speaker. His voice, though he spoke at the natural pitch 
of it, was remarkably clear and strong ; and his whole manner was 
calculated to create a feeling of respect. He stood as firmly as a 
mainmast ; and a well carved image of him, pea jacket and aU, 
would have made a glorious figure-head for Old Ironsides. Father 
Ephraim’s countenance began to lose its expression of anxiety, and 
the old sailor continued, as follows : 

“ Please your honor, it ’s no very pleasant matter, for a poor 
sailor, to go over the old shoal, where he lost a fine ship ; but he 
must be a shabby fellow, that would n’t stick up a beacon, if he 


80 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


could, and fet.jh honve soundings and bearings, for the good of all 
others, who may sail in those seas. I ’ve followed the sea for lifty 
years. I had good and kind parents — God bless ’em both. They 
brought me up to read the Bible, and keep the Sabbath. My father 
drank spirit sparingly. My mother never drank any. Whenever 1 
asked for a taste, he always was wise enough to put me off : ‘ Milk 
for babes, my lad,’ he used to say; ‘children must take care how 
they meddle with edge tools.’ When I was twelve, I went to sea, 
cabin boy of the Tippoo Saib ; and the captain promised my father 
to let me have no grog ; and he kept his word. After my father’s 
death, I began to drink spirit ; and I continued to drink it till I was 
forty-two. I never remember to have been tipsy in my life ; but I 
was greatly afflicted with headache and rheumatism, for several 
years. I got married when I was twenty-three. We had two 
boys ; one of them is living. My eldest boy went to sea with me, 
three voyages, and a finer lad” — just then something seemed to 
stick in the old boatswain’s throat, but he was speedily relieved, 
and proceeded in his remarks. — “ I used to think my father was 
over-strict about spirit, and when it was cold or wet, I did n’t see 
any harm in giving Jack a little, though he w^as only fourteen. 
When he got ashore, where he could serve out his own allowance, 
I soon saw that he doubled the quantity. I gave him a^talk. He 
promised to do better ; but he did n’t. I gave him another, but he 
grew worse ; and finally, in spite of all his poor mother’s prayers, 
and my own, he became a drunkard. It sunk my poor wife’s spirits 
entirely, and brought mine to the water’s edge. Jack became very 
bad, and I lost all control over him. One day, I saw a gang of men 
and boys, poking fun at a poor fellow, who was reeling about in the 
middle of the circle, and swearing terribly. Nobody likes to see his 
profession dishonored, so I thought I ’d run down and take him in 
tow. Your honor knows what a sailor’s heart is made of — what 
do you think I felt, when I found it was my own son ! — I could n’t 
resist the sense of duty ; and I spoke to him pretty sharply. But 
his answer threw me all aback, like a white squall in the Levant. 
He heard me through, and, doubling his fist in my face, he exclaimed. 
‘You MADE ME A DRUNKARD!’ It cut tbo laniards of my heart 
like a chain shot from an eighteen pounder ; and I felt as if I should 
have gone by the board.” As he uttered these words, the tears ran 
down the channels of the old man’s cheeks like rain. Friend Simp- 
son was deeply affected, and Parson Sterling sat with his handker- 
chief before his eyes. Indeed, there was scarcely a dry eye in the 
assembly. After wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his pea jacket, 
the old sailor proceeded. 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


Si 


** I tried, night and day, to think of the best plan, to keep my 
other son from following on to destruction, in the wake of his elder 
brother. I gave him daily lessons of temperance ; I held up before 
him the example of his poor brother ; I cautioned him not to take 
spirit upon an empty stomach, and I kept my eye constantly upon 
him. Still I daily took my allowance ; and the sight of the dram 
bottle, the smell of the liquor, and the example of his own father, 
were abler lawyers on t’other side. I saw the breakers ahead ; and 
I prayed God to preserve not only my child, but myself ; for I was 
sometimes alarmed for my own safety. About this time [ went to 
meeting one Sunday, and the minister read the account ol the over- 
throw of Goliah. As I returned home I compared intemperance, in 
my own mind, to the giant of Gath ; and I asked myself why there 
might not be found some remedy for the evil as simple as the means 
employed for his destruction. For the first time, the thought of total 
abstinence occurred to my mind : this, then, said I, is the smooth 

STONE from the BROOK, AND THE SHEPHERD's SLING ! I told my 
wife what I had been thinking of. She said she had no doubt, that 
God had put the thought into my mind. I called in Tom, my 
youngest son, and told him I had resolved never to taste another 
drop, blow high or blow low. I called for all there was in the 
house, and threw it out of the window. Tom promised to take no 
more. I never have had reason to doubt, that he has kept his prom- 
ise. He is now first mate of an Indiaman. Now, your honor, I 
have said all I had to say about my own experience. Maybe I ’ve 
spun too long a yarn already. But I think it wouldn’t puzzle a 
Chinese juggler to take to pieces all that has been put together on 
t’other side.” 

“Friend Barney,” said Ephraim Simpson, “I have attended to 
the stranger’s words ; they are verily the words of truth and sober 
aess, and I would willingly hear more.” 

“ Spin as long a yarn as you please, Mr. Morgan,” said the 
'-haimian, “ and I hope it will be spun of as good hemp and as hard 
.wisted as the last.” The strong disposition to cheer and applaud, 
which was testified throughout the assembly, could scarcely be 
irestraincd, by the efforts of the chairman. Jim Dixon was so 
delighted, that he actually held up '“his hat and proposed three 
cheers. Captain Barney reminded him, that he was in the house 
of God ; and that Mr. Morgan’s practical good sense needed no sucl: 
kind of support. “ Please to proceed, Mr. Morgan,” said he. 

“ Well, your honor,” said the old salt, “ I ’ve got all that I 
heard here to-day coiled up in my store-room, ard with your l:-orjo’'’3 
leave I ’ll just overha ul it. The very first man ll at spoke, said he had 


82 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


lost two likely boys, by the use of ardent spirit. That was saying 
someth big to the purpose. Then up got the gentleman, that said lit 
kept the tavern, and that folks might keep their boys and themselves 
at home. Cold comfort, your honor, for a poor man that ’s lost 
two children ! Now, if a man holds out a false light, or hangs one 
to the tail of an old horse, and such things have been done, as your 
honor knows, and I lose my ship by mistaking it for the true light, 
I should n’t be much comforted, by being told, that I might have 
kept my ship in port or myself at home. Now, if a dram-seller, 
who happens to outlive a score of poor fellows, who have drank 
death and destruction at his hands, will still sell the poison, that he 
well knows must kill a considerable number of those that drink it ; 
he is the man that holds out a false light. The question he asks is 
a queer sort of a question, your honor, to be sure. Why has n’t he 
as good a right to sell spirit with a license, as the farmer to sell his 
corn without one 1 I ’ve been in countries, where a man who 
bought a license, or an indulgence, as they call it, to murder his 
neighbor, might inquire, in the same manner, why he had not as 
good a right to commit a murder with a license, as his neighbor 
to sell his well-gotten merchandise without one.’* “ That old fel- 
low would have made a capital lawyer,” said Teazle to the chairman 
in a whisper. — “A little too straightforward for that, Mr. Teazle,” 
replied Captain Barney with a smile. 

“ Now, your honor,” continued the boatswain, “ I ’ve heard law- 
yers say, that a man could n’t be forced to pay his debts, if no claim 
was made within six years. A man owes the amount just as much 
after, for all I can see, as he did before, and would be a great knave 
not to pay it. He may, therefore, as I understand it, be a great 
knave, according to law. I can’t see, therefore, that this rum- 
selling business is an honorable or a moral business, because it is a 
lawful business. 

“ Please your honor, the gentleman, whom I take to be a lawyer, 
because he said something about his clients, seems to be an ingen- 
ious and able man. Now, your honor, w’hen I see an ingenious and 
able man, talk, as it seems to me this gentleman has, I can’t help 
th nking he knows he has got hold of a rotten cause. Just so, when 
an old seaman can’t make a^eat splice, the fault ’s in the rope, and 
Mol in him. He says the traffic is a lawful traffic, and we have no 
right to interfere with it. I hope, your honor, the gentleman 
does n’t mean to take the law of us, if we refuse to drink rum ; and 
I suppose nobody wants to interfere in any other way. Dram-sell- 
Li/? is not more lawful, I take it, than rope-making ; yet we are not 
obliged to buy a hemp cable, if we like an iron one better. The gen- 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


83 


tleman says we may drink rum or not ; and if we become drunkards, 
the fault and its consequences are our own. Now, your honor, sup- 
pose I should contrive some new-fangled sort of amusement, so very 
agreeable, that very few would be able to resist the temptation to 
try it ; and yet, in the long run, it should be the cause of death to 
one out of every fifty, how long should I be suffered to go on? We 
are praying not to be led into temptation, and yet we are constantly 
tempting one another to become drunkards, aid yet telling them 
it ’s their own fault after all. The gentleman says temperance 
is a good thing. My notion is, that it would be a bad thing for the 
lawyers, your honor. He says the law forbids selling ardent spirit 
to drunkards. It ’s a strange sort of a law, that forbids us from 
giving any more rope to a man that has already hanged himself. 
Now, your honor, ought not that law to be altered, so as to forbia 
the dram-sellers from selling it to any person but drunkards, who m il* 
soon die off, and leave none but temperate people behind? The 
gentleman said we must apply to the legislature. If we get a good 
law, how long will it last, your honor? I don’t know whether 
there ’s a weathercock atop o’ the state-house ; but I ’ve heard that 
the wind there goes aU round the compass, sometimes in four and 
twenty hours. Unless the law is put in force, what is it good for? 
Why it ’s like the Dutchman’s anchor, that lay on the wharf at 
Ostend, when he was in a gale, off Cape Hatteras. You might as 
well have a law, your honor, against the rheumatism. If people 
can be persuaded to leave off drinking, entirely, that will be as good 
as a law, written in their members, — and then, your honor, the 
dram-sellers may drink up the balance among themselves. Total 
abstinence, it seems to me, is the only remedy, and the evils of 
intemperance will fall before this simple remedy alone, as the giant 
of Gath fell before a smooth stone from the brook and a shep- 
herd’s SLING.” 

The old man sat down, amidst a roar of applause, which contin- 
ued for several minutes, in defiance of Captain Barney’s best efforts, 
and the repeated application of his oak stick against the side of the 
pulpit. 

Silence having been restored, the question was taken on the mo- 
tion of Captain Lane, and carried by an almost unanimous vote. A 
society was formed upon the spot : and one hundred and thirty' tw ( 
individuals signed the pledge. 

The old boatswain was surrounded, after the meeting had dis* 
solved, and received an hundred kind looks and hearty shakes by the 
hand. The humble hospitality of Fishingport was offered by many , 
but his business called him immediately away. Jim Dixon and 


84 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


lialf a dozen zealous fishermen, in a knot by themselves, were 
eagerly debating, whether Mr. Morgan might not be prevailed on to 
relinquish the sea, and if it might not be a good thing to dismiss 
Parson Twist, and give the old boatswain a call. 

“ Well, father Simpson,” said Captain Lane, after the meeting, 
“ what do ye think of the speaker?” “ Beyond my expectation, I 
confess,” said the old man. “ If you could hear him tell over,” 
said the captain, “ the long list of likely fellows that have foundered 
all round him in this ocean of rum, for forty years, it would make 
your heart ache.” “ Billy,” rejoined the Quaker, “ I tell thee, he 
hath done more good, in one hour, than all the clergy could have 
done, in a twelvemonth, towards the removal of the evUs of intem- 
perance.” 

The progress of the reformation in Fishingport was rapid beyond 
example. In three months from that time, a drunkard attracted as 
much attention, as a stranger of distinction. “ Now,” said old 
Peggy, “ a body can sleep o’ nights.” 

At the next March meeting, the old selectmen declined being 
candidates for offices, which it was obvious they would not be 
elected to fill. Three cold-water men were chosen without opposi- 
tion, who refused all application for licenses to sell ardent spirit in 
Fishingport. 

Captain Lane contracted for a large house, on a beautiful spot of 
ground, just above father Simpson’s, on the left hand, just before 
you come to the road, that carries you to the meeting-house. It 
was speedily finished ; for he said, his old mother should have the 
comfort of it, in her old age. Friend Ephraim superintended its 
construction ; and there was not a drop of grog in the joints, from 
garret to cellar. No man who drank spirit, raised an axe or lifted 
a hammer in the work. 

Here, for many years, dwelt Captain William Lane, the friend of 
tlie poor, a terror to evil-doers, and a praise to such as did well. 
Good, perfectly unmixed, is no ordinary thing. The peace and 
prosperity of the town, the cheerful, yet busy expression on the fea- 
tures of its inhabitants, the constant arrival and departure of the 
fishing craft, the kind and provident husbands, happy wives, and 
dutiful children of Fishingport, became as remarkable, as the intem- 
perance, indolence, and wretchedness of Groggy Harbor, a short 
lime before. On the other hand, it must be admitted, that the sex 
ton and the apothecary had much less to do. Teazle lost the greater 
part of his business, and his office is now occupied by a worthy slioe- 
maker. Dr. Gale was one of the best friends of the cause. 
“ Few,” said he, “ are more likely to profit by the temperance 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


85 


reform, than men of my profession. We have less to do ; but we 
are paid for it all. Formerly I was worn out, night and day, in the 
service of a set of poor drunken creatures, whom I could not refuse 
to attend ; whom I supplied with medicine, which they had no 
means to buy ; and from whom I never got a cent.” 

As no licenses were granted, we need not say that the Demijohn, 
as a matter of course, became a temperance house. The man who 
took it, was a person of some humor ; he retained the old sign, but 
turned it bottom upward, to signify that the liquor had run out. 

Simon Spicket soon found, that he was doing what is called a 
small business ; for Jim Dixon, who thought Captain Lane, next to 
the old boatswain, the greatest man in the world, had, with the 
captain’s assistance, set up a grocery store in the heart of the to\\Ti ; 
and he had the custom of all, who preferred their sugar without 
sand, and their molasses, before it was diluted. 

At the end of two years, the old boatswain, who had lost his 
wife, quitted the sen, and dropped anchor for the remainder of his 
days, alongside his old master. The captain made him a present 
of an acre of land, and he built himself a snug cabin, directly over 
the way, and in front of the captain’s dwelling-house. When the 
old ship was broken up, he put the figure-head, a Neptune with 
his trident, over the front door. He was a man of excellent judg- 
ment and sterling integrity, and saved the county a considerable 
amount of time and money ; for nothing was more common, upon 
any disagreement in the harbor, than to hear a proposal on one 
side, to leave it to uncle Morgan, and an immediate assent on the 
other. 

Parson Twist is yet living, though he has relinquished his holy 
.•a 'ling. The captain thought him an amiable man ; but he used 
.0 say, that the least touch of the helm would make the parson 
change his course ever so many points, in an instant. The captain 
was kind to him ; and he now keeps a little shop, for the sale of 
oooks and stationery. 

I'he Reverend Mr Sterling has been settled in Fishingport, For 
three years past ; and never had a clergyman a more ready assistant, 
for the promotion of every good work, than has this excellent disci- 
ple of his Lord and Master, in good Captain Lane. Old Peggy in 
lier new house, with every comfort about her, is one of the happie-^t 
creatures upon earth ; and father Ephraim and his wife are not less 
happy in their old one. 

^lavk Mooney died, in great anguish of body and mind. His cor. 
fessions on his death bed to the Reverend Mr. Sterling, were of so 
painful a character irid revealed such atrocious cbnduct, especially 

VOL « $ 


B6 


GROGGY HARBOR. 


in relation to the old shipwreck on the Drunkard’s Ruin, that the 
minister and father Ephraim decided not to communicate them to 
Captain Lane : — the wretch had gone beyond the jurisdiction of all 
earthly tribunals. 

The reader shall have no reason to complain that we leave him m 
ignorance of the fate of Jenny Jones. The captain became deejily 
interested in this miserable creature ; and, at his own cost, conveyed 
her to the Asylum for the Insane. In less than twelve months, she 
recovered her reason, to the astonishment of everybody, excepting 
the skilful superintendent ; who remarked, that she might, in all 
probability, have been cured, at any time before, had she been 
removed from her old haunts, and judiciously attended. She has 
been entirely well, for several years ; and, having received a good 
plain education, in her youth, she has, for some time, kept the vil- 
lage school, in the very house where it was formerly kept, by old 
Peggy Lane. 

A neighboring clergyman, on a visit to the Reverend Pastor, after 
a residence of several days, witnessing the universal indications of 
industry, health, and good manners, in the inhabitants, and the gen- 
eral appearance of neatness and comfort about their dwellings, lifted 
up his hands and exclaimed, “Can this be Groggy Harbor 1” 
“ No, my friend,” said the Reverend Mr. Sterling, “this is no 
longer Groggy Harbor. Its nature has been changed, and the namn 
may well be forgotten. This change, which fills you with astonish- 
ment, and which has given us peaceful firesides, for temples of dis 
cord, beauty for ashes, and the oil of joy for mourning, has been 
produced by the simple remedy of total abstinence from ardint 
SPIRIT, which has proved as effectual, in our warfare with into.n- 
perance, that giant of human evils, as a smooth stone from tl c 

BROOK AN”: A SHEPHERD’s SLING.” 


RIGHT OPPOSITE 


Neither riches, nor honors, nor learning, nor wisdom, nor age, nor strengti nor stsfure, nM 
power, can provide a security for man, against the evils of intemperance. DruiiKenness is at heme, 
in the cottage and the castle ; upon the sailor’s hammock, and the bed of down ; among the learned 
and the ignorant J the poor and the rich ; the vulgar and the refined. 

It woftM be matter for curious speculation, to inquire how far the intemperate habits of many 
educated men have been connected, in their very formation, with their academical and collegiate 
studies. Expurgated editions of the Greek and Roman classics have been introduced into our 
academies and colleges. But, as far as my knowledge extends, the process of expurgation has tieen 
Confined to such portions of the classics, as were of a libidinous or amatory character. Many glow- 
ing passages, which are of constant occurrence on the pages of those ancient writers, have been 
rejected, with eminent propriety, in such editions as are designed for colleges and schools. The 
efl'ect of the deliberate translation of such passages, into plain English, in a public recitation room, 
must prove exceedingly embarrassing and indecorous. This consideration, however, is of minor 
importance. What is the least of all those evils, which may be expected from the laborious acqui- 
sition of that precious knowledge, which these objectionable portions contain f The precise import 
of every word is to be ascertained, with toil, and fixed in the memory ; terms and phrases are to be 
understood ; and every part of, the sentence, faithfully adjusted to its fellows ; until the sentiment, 
contained in the nut-shell of a sententious and beautiful verse, never, perhaps, to he forgotten, is 
efiectually wrought into the system, like leaven into the lump. The mischievous influence of such 
reading, while the youthful heart, like molten wax, is peculiarly susceptible of impression, has been 
fully estimated, by those, who have the superintendence of our literary institutions; and the salu- 
tary efl'ect of the preventive measure, to which we have alluded, has been satisfactorily tested. 

Let us gravely inquire, if expurgation, in relation to those ancient authors, which are employed 
in schools and colleges, has had its perfect work? Is there no other topic, which may be fairly con- 
sidered a legitimate subject matter for the excisive process? Is there nothing more for the pruning- 
hook of the moral instructor? — We think there is. The praises of wine are everlastingly poured 
forth by Horace, Anacreon, et id genus omne. Men and boys are imitative creatures; and, after 
reading with care, and fixing firmly in their memories, the fervid and eloquent descriptions of 
Falernian, Chian, Formian and other wines, with which such writers have literally filled their works, 
not a few rise from the perusal, more than half inclined to make a trial of their virtues. In the 
absence of all those unenforced wines of other days, our under graduates very naturally resort to such 
execrable compositions, as are vended, under the name of wine, almost in the very purlieus of our 
universities: and we greatly err, if the intemperance of the full-grown man, in after days, may not 
frequently be traced to a classical original. 

We believe the influence of such reading to be mischievous, in its operation upon the minds of 
young men and boys. If it be needful, that they should acquire any knowledge of wine, let ihem 
seek it among the words of truth and soberness, and not upon the pages of those fanciful writers, 
who hold, that drunkenness, in a certain modification, is the handmaid of poesy. Let them acquire 
correct impressions, at first, by a careful perusal of the elder Pliny’s treatise upon wine, and especially 
of that portion of it, in which he writes, “ de ebrietate vitanda.” 


Twenty years had rolled away, one after another, like billows 
upon the ocean, since, upon the day after commencement, in the 
year 18 — , Mr. Atherton had taken his chum, Tom Burley, by the 
hand, for the last time. They had separated with expressions ol 
great kindness for each other, and an agreement to correspond ; 
which, of late, had not been very carefully regarded by eitlier. 
Burley had returned to his native village, and settled down upon an 
extensive patrimonial estate, as a gentleman of leisure. Atherton 
hg,d become a planter in the State of Mississippi. Their Greek and 
J satin had long been forgotten, and their Hebrew had died down to 
the roots. 

Mr. Atherton, whose health had become impaired, was advised, 
Dy his physician, to take a journey into New England, and make a 


88 


, RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


trial of his native air ; and no inconsiderable part of his prospective 
enjoyment was associated with the idea of revisiting the scenes of 
his youth, and meeting his old classmate, Burley, again. Mr 
Atherton, it is true, had lost all his skill in the dead languages ; but 
there existed, in his mind, a residuum, in the form of a purified taste, 
acquired undoubtedly by the study of those very languages. He 
was a slave-holder ; and certainly an exception from the general 
rule, that the exercise of a dominion, nearly equal to that of a Satrap, 
over one’s fellow-creatures, will ultimately harden the heart of man 
1 have passed a month in his hospitable mansion, and can truly say, 
without any defalcation from the sum total of my utter abhorrence 
of slavery, that Archibald Atherton was a kind-hearted master. 

Mr. Atherton travelled on horseback ; and, followed by a gray- 
headed negro, had arrived within a short distance of the village, in 
which his friend Burley resided. He had stopped at a brook, to 
water his horse, and old Sambo had ridden close to his side, for the 
purpose of drawing his cloak more closely about his shoulders 
Sambo was a faithful creature, and a man of all works. He was 
a capital cook, valet, barber, and coachman, a good farrier and 
groom ; and, though he had never received a diploma, he possessed 
no contemptible share of skill and knowledge in the healing art. 
Indeed he was universally known, by the title of the. Doctor, among 
the blacks of the neighboring plantations. — “ Pretty sharp, niassa,” 
said the careful creature, as he brought the collar of the cloak more 
closely round his master’s throat. — “Rather cold. Sambo,” said 
Mr. Atherton with a kind-hearted expression ; “ we have now gotten 
into New England ; and how beautiful is all the surrounding scene- 
ry !” — It was beautiful indeed. It was a clear frosty morning in 
the middle of October ; a thin formation of ice might be seen at the 
edges of the brook ; pumpkins and squashes were gathered in heaps 
round the farmers’ doors ; the laborers were employed in cutting the 
corn from the stalk, or throwing the harvest into carts, preparatory 
to the husking frolic ; and every farm-house was adorned with its 
festoons of dried apples. All around bore the impress of sub- 
stantial comfort. But the forest, the October forest of New England , 
was never more beautiful than at that very time. The fall of the 
.eaf had not yet commenced, save with the birch, and the few ill- 
fated foresters, whose shallowness of earth gave them a stinted 
nourishment, insufficient for their annual wants. The whole fci'est 
nad changed its complexion in a single night. Frost had come 
down rpon the earth, with all its powers of alchymy. The white 
oak and the ash manifested but little disposition to surrender their 
verdant honors, and had scarcely changed their color, for a d«^pe> 


/ 


RIGHT 0PP03ITC. 89 

green. But the shapely walnut had varied its light green for a 
brilliant yellow ; and mingled its leaves with the deep brown, at the 
base, and glossy moroon, at the summit, of the red shrub oak. The 
maple and the quivering aspen had assumed an orange hue, and the 
larger leaves upon the terminal shoots of the black oak were changed 
to purple. “How lovely,” said Mr. Atherton, as he gazed upon 
the scene around him, “ how lovely is this variety of colors ! how 
beautiful these hills and intervals!” 

Sambo had as strong an affection for his native state as Mr. 
Atherton ; and, withal, his mind was not entirely free from appre- 
hension, that his master might be persuaded to remain in New 
England. He therefore ventured to give his opinion. — “ Massa,” 
said he, pointing to a rocky precipice, where not even a mullein 
stalk could find foothold and support, “ dat no very good land for 
t^otton!” — Mr. Atherton laughed, and Sambo followed up his 
advantage. — “Does massa say de tree here so fine as pride o’ 
Chiny?” — “ Pride of nonsense,” said Mr. Atherton ; “ this is the 
fall of the year. Sambo.” — “ Oh, massa Atherton,” cried Sambo, 
' what you say to de red bud, and de live oak, and de great mag- 
no.'y, leaf green all de year, foot long.” — “Ay, Sambo,” said 
Mr. Atherton, “ and Spanish moss flapping in your eyes, eight feet 
long !” — “ Spanish moss make good bed, massa,” rejoined Sambo. 
— Mr. Atherton made no reply ; and Sambo, who understood the 
signal, slackened his pace, and fell into the rear. 

As they moved along, upon a moderate pace, the indications 
became more convincing, at every step, that they were upon the con- 
fines of a New England village. The long ranges of stone walls were 
a source of great wonder to Sambo, who had passed his whole life, 
in an alluvial country, where there cannot be found a stone, as large 
as a robin shot. The farm-houses, with their ordinary complement 
of bee-hives, cider-presses, and elevated corn-barns, were becom- 
ing less few and far between ; and turkeys began to present them- 
selves, in flocks, which Sambo mistook for collections of buzzards. 
They were very numerous, for the day, which is always appointed 
by the governor of every New England State, by and with the 
advice of councP, for a general roasting of these unhappy birds, had 
not yet arrived. Even Mr. Atherton was perfectly satisfied, that 
the curs, of which one or more rushed, yelping, from every gate, 
as the travellers rode by, pursuing them, till the hue and cry was 
taken up by the dogs of the next farm-house, and then returning to 
be ready for the next comer, were the descendants, in the right line, 
of those very dogs, that annoyed the traveller, in the same manner, 
some twenty years ago. The shout of an hundred little voices, and 

VOL. 1. 8* 


90 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


the irruption of as many little boys and girls from a sniail square 
building, at the road-side, denoted the general jail delivery of as 
many little prisoners, who were emancipated for the morning, from 
the bondage of science. Their gambols were interrupted, for a short 
time, as they gathered into groups and gazed after the travellers. 
The geese were more troublesome than usual, expressing, in their 
peculiar way, their indignation or scorn, or defiance, whichever it 
might be, for the motives of a goose are not easily understood. 
They cackled, and flapped their wings, and hissed at the travellers, 
particularly at Sambo, with extraordinary vehemence. 

Ere long a portion of the village spire began to appear !.mon^ 
tiie trees, and the gilded telltale on its top, in which the slippery 
politician, and the fair weather friend, and the doubting disciple, 
who is blown about by every wind of doctrine, may behold a happy 
emblem of life and practice. The village was now far ly before 
them, beautifully planted in a broad valley ; and the smokes of its 
peaceful fires were seen, curling slowly upward, against the precip- 
itous sides of its many-colored hills beyond. 

A thousand recollections of early friendship and college days 
came crowding upon the mind of Mr. Atherton, as he drew near to 
the habitation of his friend. — “A large square brick house,” said 
he to himself, “ not far from the centre of the town ; such was the 
description, which Burley gave me of his residence, in his last letter. 
But that was written about three years ago. He may have moved, 

or” He did not finish the sentence ; it was evident, that he 

was contemplating the changes and chances, which might have 
befallen his friend. — “ Sambo,” continued Mr. Atherton, pointing 
to a house, which answered the description, “ that, I guess, must 
be the dwelling of my old friend, Mr. Burley.” — “I guess so, 
massa,” said Sambo. — “You guess so,” said Mr. Atherton, with 
a smile ; “ what makes you guess sol” — “ Oh, massa,” rejoined 
the good-natured follower, “ like massa, like man ; massa guess so. 
Sambo guess so; and de poor old horse very tired.” — “ Well,” 
said Mr. Atherton, “ I ’ll make the matter sure;” and riding up tc 
a small shop, on the other side of the way, over whose door was the 
sign of Simeon Soder, Tinman; “ Pray, sir,” said he to a little 
old man with spectacles, who was busily tinkering some article in 
his line, “ will you inform me where I may find the house of Mr.. 
Thomas Burley 1” This question he repeated three times, before 
he obtained a reply. At length the tinman turned to him, with an 
air and expression, which seemed to say, that time was money, and 
said, in a rapid manner, “ Sodering, sir, — couldn’t leave the joo, 
— what’s your will, sir?” — Mr Atherton put the inquiry again. 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 91 

— Right opposite was the reply, and the old tinman was at it 
again, before the last word was out of his mouth. 

Mr. Atherton dismounted, and, giving his horse to old Sambo, 
knocked at the doer. It was opened, by Burley himself. So uni- 
versal was the change, which twenty years had wrought in his 
appearance, that Mr. Atherton did not recognize the friend of his 
youth, intil he himself exclaimed, seizing his visitor by the hand, 

Go»i bless you, Atherton, how do you do ? Come in, my dear 
fellow, you have come in the nick of time ; Mrs. Burley is just now 
making a bowl of punch.” So saying, he dragged his old class- 
mate into the parlor, and introduced him to Mrs. Burley ; — “ My 
old friend, Atherton, my dear, of whom you have heard me speak 
so often.” — Mrs. Burley set down a case bottle of old Jamaica, a 
portion of which she had just poured into the punch-bowl, and, after 
receiving him very civilly, returned to her labors at the sideboard. 

“ My dear friend,” said Mr. Burley, “ you cannot tell how glad 
I am to see you ; — four limes you know, my dear.” — “Oh yes, I 
know,” said Mrs. Burley, in a voice of great self-complacency. — 
“ Well now, Atherton,” continued he, “ tell us about your wife 
and children, how many have you 1 — half a dozen table-spoonfuls 
of arrack, my love, to give it a flavor, you know.” — “ Lord, Mr. 
Burley,” said his partner, with no little petulance, “do you think I 
want to be directed, after making your punch, almost every day for 
tep years, when I have not been confined to my room with St. 
Anthony’s firel” — “ Make it your own way, my love,” said the 
prudent husband. “ I assure you, Atherton, nobody can make it 
better. Mrs. Burley’s forte, however, is mulled wine.” 

This admirable housewife’s composure appeared to be entirely 
restored, by the well-timed compliment. The punch was soon 
compounded, and a brimming tumbler presented to Mr. Atherton. 
— “You must excuse me,” said he, “ but my phys/cian has forbid- 
den the use of all stimulating drinks.” — “ Pray take a little, sir.” 
said Mrs. Burley, evidently mortified at his refusal. — “ My dear fel- 
low,” said her husband, “ it ’s my settled opinion, that your doctor, 
whoever he is, will be the death of you Not take punch ! What 
d ) you say to a little brandy and water 1” — “ Nothing of the kind, 
I thank you,” said Mr. Atherton. — “You are very pale, sir,” said 
Mrs. Burley, as she took her glass ; “ I really think it would heighten 
your complexion.” She certainly exhibited a striking illustration 
of the truth of her opinion. She was short and corpulent, and hei 
countenance was as round as the full moon in the primer. — Mi 
Atherton sdliered to his resolution ; and the bowl of punch was con- 
by Mr. Burley and his.ia.dy, w/ith the exception of two small 


92 


RIGHT OPPOSITK. 


glasses, which were put by, for the “ dear creatures,” as Mrs. Bur* 
ley called them, on their return from school. 

Mr. Burley again interrogated his friend, about his wife and chil- 
dren ; and learned, that he had left four fine boys and their mother, 
in good health on his plantation. But Mr. Atherton’s manners had 
become exceedingly solemnized, by the scene around him ; and the 
natural melancholy of his character had assumed an air of sadness, 
while contemplating the striking alteration in the appeal ance of his 
friend. His fine black hair had become prematurely gray, at forty- 
two. At college, he had been remarkable for his erect figure, clear 
complexion, and bright eye. He had become extremely corpulent, 
with an infirm gait, and the stoop of old age. His eye had lost its 
lustre, and acquired that stupid, and bloodshot appearance, which is 
so characteristic of an intemperate man. It told too plainly the story 
of his evil habits ; and his bloated and eruptive countenance con- 
firmed the disgraceful tale. 

A loud shout at the gate announced the return of the two boys 
from school. “ Jim and Billy have got home,” said Mrs. ^urley , 
and, going to the door, “Billy, dear, come in,” said she. — “I 
won’t,” said Billy. — “Jim,” said this judicious parent, “catch 
Billy, and fetch himin.” — “ I won’t,” said Jim. — “Dear me,” 
said Mrs. Burley, as she returned into the house, “ the spirits of 
these dear children fairly run away with them. Here, dears,” she 
continued, holding up the two glasses of punch. These urchins, 
one about nine, and the other, twelve years of age, came rushing 
up to the door ; and the mother attempted to catch them by their 
manes, like a couple of colts. Jim escaped, breaking the tumbler 
on the door-step, and upsetting the punch on his mother’s gown. 
Billy was dragged into the room, floundering and stamping, - - 
“ Here is Mr. Atherton, my love, your father’s old friend, shake 
hands with the gentleman, Billy.” — “I don’t care, — I won’t, — 
let me go.” — “ Oh Billy, dear,” said the mother, who was fairly 
out of breath, and let him escape, “ you don’t behave your best by 
any means.” — “I never interfere,” said Mr. Burley, who had 
just taken up the ladle, habitually as it were, and put it down 
again, when he discovered, that the bowl was empty ; “I never 
interfere : for managing boys and making a bowl of punch, Mrs. 
Burley has not her equal, in the county.” 

J'he dinner hour, at length, arrived. “ You ’ll take a little brandy 
before dinner,” said Mr. Burley to his friend. — “No, I thank 
you,” said Mr. Atherton. “Well,” said Mr. Burley, “I find 1 
cannot do without it. A watery stomach, I tlunk, cannot be cor- 
rected so readily, in 'any other way. Wine does not agree with me, 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


93 


at all . and, though I can give you some tolerable brandy, or Hol- 
lands, or Jamaica, I am afraid we have scarcely a glass of wine, 
that ’s worth your drinking.” — “I never take it,” said Mr. Ath- 
erton. — “No wine!” said Mrs. Burley; “you amaze me.” — 
“ Ha, ha, ha, you ’re a cold-water man,” cried her husband, as he 
jut down his glass. “ I can ’t go it. I must have brandy. But 
here ’s a little old fellow, right opposite^ Soder, the tinman, who 
drinlcs nothing but water. He ’ll be delighted to drink with you all 
day. He ’s an active member of the temperance society. That lit- 
tle old skeleton and his son, who keeps another tin shop, half a mile 
down the street, Simeon Soder, junior, with a set of fanatical hypo 
elites and orthodox rascals, if they could have their way, would 
soder up the throats of every man, woman, and child, that drank a 
drop of spirit. Our well has failed, this very last week ; and I ’ve 
no doubt these rascals are at the bottom of it. Here ’s a long lif^ 
to the best of them,” said he, pouring down another glass e" 
brandy. “But do, tell me, Atherton,” he continued, “if you ai* 
a cold-water man?” — “Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Atherton. - 
“A member of the temperance society?” inquired the other. - 
“ No, I am not,” said Mr. Atherton. — “ I thought you were too sen 
sible a man,” cried Mr. Burley, slapping his hand upon his visitor’, 
shoulder, “ to join such a shabby society.” — “Why, as to that,’ 
observed Mr. Atherton, “ I will be very candid with you, friend Bur- 
•ey ; the only reason, why T am not a member of the temperance soci- 
ety, is that no such society exists in my neighborhood. I abstain, 
for the sake of my health. For the sake of the example to others, I 
should think it my duty to sign the pledge ; and, when I return home, 
1 think I shall endeavor to get such a society organized.” — “ Ather- 
ton,” said Mr. Burley, scarcely able to disguise his displeasure, “ I ’ll 
bet you a suit of clothes, that this scurvy company, the self-styled 
friends of temperance, will come to nothing in less than five years. 
Old Colonel Cozy, who had his canteen shot away in the battle of 
Brandywine, and behaved nobly, and who now keeps the hotel in this 
town, says he has made a calculation, and that the whole temperai ice 
party in the United States cannot exceed six thousand, of whom the 
greater part are hypocrites, ministers, and old women ” — “ Friend 
Burley,” said Mr. Atherton, with a smile, “ as to the clothes, I 
have no occasion for a suit, and I never bet. But permit me lo 
inquire, if you were ever present at a temperance meeting?” — “ I,” 
said Burley, “ not I indeed ; I would as soon be caught robbing a hen- 
roost ” — “ Have you ever read any of their reports, circulars, or 
journals?” — “Never, only on one occasion,” he replied ; “one 
morning, just as Mrs. Burley had finished makir.g her punch, a 


94 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


scoundrel threw one of their dirty newspapers into the yard ; and my 
little boy, Jin, brought it into the parlor. The very first article 
was headed ‘ Punch in the morning.’ I ran after the fellow with 
my horsewhip. He asserted in the most solemn manner, that the 
paper was the first number of a journal, and that he had orders to 
leave one at every door. But who, that considers all the circum- 
stances, will doubt, that some villain, who knew our hour for punch, 
had sent this hireling to insult me? Mrs. Burley said, tliat she 
only wished she had his tongue within reach of her scissors. I told 
him, that, if he should ever throw another of his impudent papers 
before my door, I would break every bone in his skin.” As lie 
uttered the last words, Mr. Burley struck his fist upon the table 
with such force, that he woke up his good lady, who had fallen fast 
asleep in her chair. 

“ Now, my friend,” said Mr. Atherton, “ your error, in relation 
to the number of the friends of temperance, in our country, is very 
great ; instead of six thousand, two millions abstain from the use and 
the traffic : and the wisdom, learning, and worth of our country are 
rapidly gathering to the side of the temperance reform.” — ‘‘ Well, 
well,” cried Mr. Burley, with evident impatience, “I believe I 
must go on the old way. Let us talk of some other subject. 
Where is our old class-mate Lane ?” — “In the drunkard’s grave,” 
said Mr. Atherton. — “ Is it possible !” said Mr. Burley, as he sat 
his glass upon the table, and folded his arms upon his breast. — 
“ Even so,” replied his friend ; “ he quitted the law, or rather the 
law quitted him, in 1812, and he obtained a commission in the army, 
soon became intemperate, and died a sot.” — “ He Wcis remarkably 
abstemious, at college,” said Mr. Burley; “ and I have heard him 
discourse of the dangers of intemperance, an hundred times ; while 
Barry, his chum, would laugh and take his glass, and say, that he 
had no fear of himself, while he retained his reason.” — “Of 
course,” said Mr. Atherton, “ you know what became of Barry?” 
— “I heard,” said the other, “ that he went to Europe, about fifteen 
years ago.” — “ He died,” said Mr. Atherton, “ a most miserable 
drunkard, in a French prison. I have been told, by an American 
gentleman, who knew something of bis family, and kindly visited 
him in jail, that he had never beheld a more loathsome and disgust- 
ing victim of intemperance. You see, friend Burley, how it is, the 
most confident, the strongest swimmers are as frequently swallowed 
up, by these waters of strife, as the most timid, if they venture at 
all.” — Mr. Burley had listened with evident emotion. A short 
pause ensued. He lifted his eyes upon the features of his benevo- 
’ent friend. They rested there but an instant. The kind but 
melancholy expressioi of an honest friend was perfectly irresistible. 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


S 

95 

That single glance hart established a mutual consciousness of 
each other’s thoughts. — “ Nineteen of our old classmates,” said 
Mr. Atherton, “ have already died, or yet live, intemperate men. 
You remember Archer, who distinguished himself for his skill in 
mathematicsl” — “I do,” said Mr. Burley, without raising his 
eyes from the floor. — “ Archer,” continued Mr. Atherton, “mar- 
ried my only sister. His habits were then perfectly correct, but he 
became a convivial and popular man ; soon fell into habits of intem- 
perance ; broke my poor sister’s heart ; and shortened her days, 
fie is now a subaltern clerk or runner, in the office of our under 
sheriff ; and my sister’s three little orphans, for they are, in reality, 
fatherless and motherless, mingle with my own little troop, and w'O 
try to love them all alike, and succeed pretty well too.” — Mrs. 
Burley had left the room, and the two friends were now by them 
selves — “This is a detestable vice, Burley,” said Mr. Atherton 

— Burley said nothing, but bit his lip, and the tear stood in his eye 
He was a man of a kind heart, and good natural understanding. — • 
‘ Burley,” said Mr. Atherton, taking him by the hand, “forgive 
the freedom of an old friend ; — I conjure you to abandon the use of 
ardent spirit.” — “ My dear friend,” he replied, wiping the tears 
from his eyes, “ I trust I am in no danger.” — “ Those,” said Mr. 
Atherton, “ who are upon the edge of a precipice, do not always 
see the danger so clearly, as those w'ho are further removed.” 

— Mr. Burley admitted, that he had sometimes tried to diminish 
the quantity, but always thought he w’as the worse for it. Total 
abandonment appeared to him to be absolutely impossible. — They 
were now summoned to the tea-table ; and Mr. Atherton sat down, 
in a scene of confusion, in which the reading of the riot act would 
not have been amiss. The violence of disorderly boys, upsetting 
their tea-cups, and fighting for gingerbread, constantly and unavail- 
ingly chidden by the shrill voice of their mother, for whose authority 
they appeared to care nothing ; and restrained, in no respect, by 
their father, who left their management entirely to his better half ; 
all this, and the fatigue of his journey, caused Mr. Atherton, soon 
after he had risen from table, to seek a good night’s repose ; and he 
was shown to his chamber, by Mr. Burley. 

The first object, that struck Mr. Atherton, as they entered it 
logether, was an excellent portrait of Burley, taken just after he 
left the university It completed the chain of recollection in the 
mind of Mr. Atherton ; — it w^as impossible not to contrast it with 
the sad reality ; and, as he unavoidably cast a glance from the one 
to the other, a sigh involuntarily escaped him. — “ You see a great 
alteration, I suppose!” said Mr. Burley. — ‘I do,” said his friend. 
“ We grow old fast enough, when we do nothing to hasten tb<* 


96 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


chariot of time.” — Mr. Burley appeared to understand the reproof; 
and with some little appearance of confusion, he wished him a good 
night s rest, and retired. 

Mr. Atherton’s reflections were of a most painful character. He 
cast his eyes around the room, and thoaght he discovered the sig- 
nals of approaching poverty ; two or three panes of glass were 
broken, and the air was excluded, by stiff paper, tacked to the 
frame ; the carpet and the counterpane were ragged, and the dust, 
which had o2«en suffered to accumulate upon the scanty furniture, 
cvas indicative of sluttery and sloth. He had also observed, that his 
old friend was rather shabbily clad. His fatigue had well paid in 
advance for a good night’s rest, and he was scarcely on his pillow, 
before he fell into a profound sleep ; and, when he awoke, the next 
morning, the sun was shining in at his chamber windows. 

He cast his eyes about the room, and was amused with the ope- 
rations of a venerable spider, whose joints were evidently comforted 
by the rays of the bright sun of an October morning. The intelli- 
gent creature had quitted the metropolis of its beautiful domain, and 
posted itself on that side of it, on which the very first stream of 
golden light must necessarily fall ; and was moving slowly forward, 
to keep, asTong as possible, beneath the influence of its cheering 
light and heat. It had judiciously expanded its web, where it was 
least likely to be disturbed in its operations, over the glass doors of 
a little book-case ; and where the exhausted carcasses of numerous 
flies and moths, indicated a long summer’s campaign. 

His friend received him, in the parlor, with much kindness, but 
in a subdued manner, and with an apparent consciousness, that, for 
some reason or other, he himself was placed on less elevated ground , 
They had scarcely assembled in the breakfast room, before Jim 
came running to his father, with a small black bottle and a wine- 
glass; — “Father,” said he, “it ’s after eight o’clock, and you 
have n’t taken your bitters.” — “Mother has,” said Billy. — Mrs. 
Burley was somewhat confused, and her husband bade the child 
put the bottle in the closet, as he should not take any, that morning. 

“Go to the door, Billy,” said Mr. Burley, just after they had 
taken their seats at the table ; “ some one is knocking.” Billy, for 
once, did as he was bidden. — “Father,” said the boy, as he 
returned, “ Mr. Soder wishes to know if you will pay the interest 
on the mortgage, to-day ; and says he has sent a great many times 
for it.” Mr. Burley rose and went to the door, evidently in a hur- 
ried and angry manner. He soon came back and resumed his seat 
at the table ; but his efforts were vain to conceal his agitation and 
embarrassment. Mr. Atherton called his attention to some early 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 97 

recollections of college days, and diverted his mind, as far as pos- 
sible, from this unpleasant occurrence. 

After a visit of three days, which probably produced very It tie 
real happiness to either party, Mr. Atherton took his leave, promising 
his old friend, that, whenever he revisited New England, he should 
certainly see him again. These three days were passed in the same 
round of unnatural demands and the same unabating gratifications. 
In compliment, probably, to Mr. Atherton, the morning bitters and 
the slipper cup were omitted. 

Mr. Atherton journeyed leisurely along; he passed over the 
Cumberland road, and, embarking upon the Ohio, at Wheeling, in 
one of those beautiful leviathans, by whose magic power, the 
ends of the earth are brought as near again together as they were, 
he was, before many days, upon the waters of the Mississippi. 
Old Sambo was permitted once more to look upon his favorite 
“ live oak and magnoly,” and Mr. Atherton soon found himself in 
the bosom of his interesting family. His health was surprisingly 
Improved, by the journey ; and three years had passed away, before 
a recurrence to the same expedient became advisable. Upon the 
present occasion, he determined upon a sea voyage ; and, embark- 
ing at New Orleans, he came, through the Gulf of Florida to New 
York. He journeyed thence, by easy stages, into New England. 

Mr. Atherton was well aware, that intemperance is a mental, 
moral, and physical “reduction descending.” He endeavored to 
prepare his mind for a very considerable change, for the worse, in 
the internal and external condition of his friend ; and it was with no 
ordinary measure of sensibility, that he found himself once more 
before the residence of Mr. Burley. It was a rainy evening, in the 
spring ; and just enough of daylight remained, while the stageman 
was depositing Mr. Atherton’s baggage at the door, to enable him 
to cast a general glance at the exterior of the dwelling ; and he was 
gratified, and somewhat surprised, at the apparent improvement. 
A new fence had been placed before the house, and the front yard 
was in neater order. In answer to a letter from Mr. Atherton, 
written shortly after his return home, Mr. Burley had thanked him 
for his kind advice, in a tone of deep feeling, and promised to give 
the subject of entire abstinence the most serious consideration. — > 
“ God be praised,” said Mr. Atherton, as he quickly mounted the 
steps, and knocked at the door. — It was scarcely opened, before he 
extended his hand, but withdrew it as soon, for he discovered, that 
the person before him was a stranger. — ‘ Pray, sir,” said Mr. 
Atherton, “does not Mr. Burley live here!” — “He does not,” 
answered the stranger. — “ Reily,” ^d Mn Atkertoa, “will 
'vo(L. i. 9 


98 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


you have the goodness to direct me to -his residence?” — Right 
opposite,''’ was the reply. — “ Right opposite !” rejoined Mr. Ather- 
ton. “ About three years ago, I received the very same answer, 
when asking the same question of a tinman, on the other side of the 
way, a Mr. Soder, I think.” — “ Very like, sir,” was the answer, 
“ my name '.s Soder, sir; I kept my shop over the way, for many 
years; and g«ave up the business about one year ago.” — “Mr. 
Burley was an old classmate of mine,” said Mr. Atherton, “ and I 
have come a distance of some thousands of miles, partly on account 
of my health, and, in some measure, to visit an old friend.” — 
“ Well, sir,” said Mr. Soder, “I don’t think you could be very 
well accommodated over the way ; the tavern is at some distance, 
and it ’s raining hard ; if you can put up with our plain fare, and take 
a bed with us to-night, you will be quite welcome, I assure you.” 
— Ml. Atherton accepted the proposal with many thanks, and was 
soon shown into the parlor, and introduced to Mrs. Soder, a bright, 
little, old lady, younger, at sixty, than her predecessor, in the same 
apartment, at thirty-five. The board was soon spread ; and exhib- 
ited a pattern of neat, simple, and abundant New England hospitality. 

Mr. Atherton was informed by his host, that poor Burley had 
gone down from bad to worse, until he became a notorious drunk- 
ard. Mr. Soder had a mortgage upon the dwelling-house, and 
Burley’s residuary interest was attached, by other creditors, and sold 
on execution. Mr. Soder bought it, and became owner of the 
estate. He could not readily get a tenant ; and, though the house, 
as he said, was too large for any private family, he. had leased his 
old house, and moved hither. No person would take poor Burley 
for a tenant ; and finally he had accepted Mr. Soder’s offer of his old 
shop, rent free ; and there Burley and his wife had continued their 
miserable existence, until about three months ago, when Mrs. Bur- 
ley died of an apoplexy. Burley’s only remaining means of support 
consisted of a trifling annuity, left him, in the will of his wife's brother, 
to terminate upon the decease of Mrs. Burley and the children. 
Mr. Soder observed, that the boys were certainly the worst in the vil- 
lage. Jim, the elder, now about fifteen, was already notorious for his 
intemperance, and the other was as bad, for his age, in every respect. 

The extremely mild and rather melancholy expression, on the 
(!c untenance of Mr. Atherton, and his prepossessing manners, had 
e\ idently won upon the good will of Mr. Soder and his worthy part- 
ner ; and they were not the less inclined to treat him kindly, after 
tliey had made the discovery, in the course of conversation, that he 
was a cordial friend to the temperance reform. 

** Thr^ ye^xs, sir^” ^ the old Uiuuoa, aa he stirred up hi^ 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


99 


“ three years have wrought a marvellous change, for the worse, in 
Mr. Burley. I think, sir, you would scarcely know him. li is 
indeed a dreadful thing, to see a man of his talents and property 
sinking so low in the world.” — “ And a gentleman of such great 
learning too,” said the old lady, as she sat busily engaged with her 
'knitting ; “ it is wonderful to hear the poor man, when he can 
scarcely stand, talking Greek, by the hour together. You remem- 
ber, my dear,” she continued, turning to her husband, “ when Colo- 
nel Cozy turned Burley out' of his bar-room, last thanksgiving day, 
what a terrible setting off he gave the old Colonel in Hebrew. ] 
did n’t hear him, but Mr. Veazy, the town-clerk, did ; and he told 
me, himself, that it was the most like Hebrew of anything he had 
ever heard in his life.” — “That was the very time,” said Mr. 
Soder, “ that the poor man lay out all night, on the ground, by the 
side of Elder Goadly’s grog-shop. The Elder tried, in vain, to per- 
suade him to get up and try to walk home. But Burley’s humor 
never left him .to the last ; and, as he had gotten his liquor at the 
Elder’s shop, he would not stir, nor attempt to rise, and continued 
to cry out, in reply to the Elder’s importunities, Where the tree falls, 
there it shall lie. It was a miracle, that he did not perish.” — “ Poor 
felloAv!” said Mr. Atherton, with a sigh so deep, so sincere, that 
the old lady, for a moment, suspended her knitting. “ Pray, sir,” 
said she, “ w'as Mr. Burley any relation of yours?” — “Noneat 
all,” replied Mr. Atherton, “but, for four years of my life, and at 
that part of it, w’hen the heart is not yet hardened, and impressions 
can be more faithfully and effectually made, we occupied the same 
room and the same bed. Tom Burley was then an universal favor- 
ite, a young man of respectable talents, an excellent scholar, amia- 
ble in his deportment, frank and upright, in his character and conduct, 
remarkable for his personal comeliness, and the expectant of exten- 
sive patrimonial possessions. — Poor fellow !” continued Mr. Ather- 
ton, as he quietly wiped the tear from his eye, “ what is he now ; 

what, of all this, at present remains ! 1 am afraid poor Burley 

is beyond all power of recovery.” 

“ I am afraid he is,” said Mr. Soder ; “ when a thing is so far 
gone, as we say, in our line, bottom and sides, time is wasted in 
repairing it. But you will see for yourself, sir, to-morrow. You 
must expect to see a great change, Mr. Atherton, in this unhappy 
man. I have lived here sixty-nine years, and I have seen a great 
many drunkards go their way, but I have never known such a rapid 
change, for the worse, as Burley’s, in the last two years and a 
half.” 

These were indeed the words of truth and soberness, as Mr. Atb- 


L.of C. 


100 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


erton became assured, when, upon the morrow, he paid a visit to the 
miserable dwelling of his Ibrmer Ihend. The huger of death works 
not a more sirikiug change, until the body actually dissolves, than 
the ruthless hand of intemperance. Mr. Atherton knocked at the 
do(*r. “ Come in, if you want to,” replied a man, in a rough and 
ill-natured tone. It was Burley ; and, in a moment after, Mr. Ath- 
erton had entered the apartment, and was standing before iiim. ile 
had not long risen, and was sitting half dressed upon a broken chair. 
He apjieared not to have shaved, for a week. His hair was very 
gray, and very long. His face was bloated and fiery, and dishgured 
hy all the customary tokens of intemperance, in an unusual degree. 
His ajiparel was dirty and shabby in the extreme. 'I'he only furni- 
ture of the apartment was the broken chair, on which he sat, a three- 
legged stool, and tlie straw bed, wliich rested directly upon the 
floor, with its ragged coverlet. He recognized Mr. Atherton imme- 
diately ; and, though with evident confusion, attempted to rise and 
give him his hand. — It w’as impossible; — he was not drunk, but 
in that condition of mental stupidity and bodily weakness in which an 
inveterate drunkard rises from his unprofitable slumbers. — “Oh, 
Burley,” said Mr. Atherton, as he drew his handkerchief from his 
pocket, and turned towards the window to hide his emotion, “ has it 
come to this!” — Burley made no reply. — A deep groan caused 
Mr. Atherton to turn his eyes again upon the unhappy victim ; — 
the tears were streaming down the cheeks of this miserable drunk- 
ard, and he appeared to be convulsed with sorrow. — These tears, 
however, were soon dried up, and the agitation as speedily subsided. 
They had not arisen from grave reflection, nor were they, in any 
way, connected wdth a resolution of amendment: they were merely 
the mechanical effects of that high nervous excitability, for which 
the intemperate are so remarkable ; and whose tears can no more be 
relied upon, as indications of deep-seated emotion in a rational being, 
than that plethoric hemorrhage, to which they are occasionally sub- 
ject ; or that free perspiration, to which they are particularly liable, 
upon any sudden alarm. 

Mr. Atherton was soon satisfied, that the case was entirely hope- 
less. The cultivated mind of Burley was utterly gone. All pride, 
all self-respect, were entirely lost ; for, when Mr. Atherton was 
about to depart, the poor degraded creature held out his hand, and, 
ill a whining voice, begged for a shilling. Mr. Atherton told him 
he would give many shillings and many pounds, if he could see him 
restored to himself. He took the poor wretch by the hand, and 
replied, “ Burley, how it grieves me to the soul, to be compelled to 
•ay that I dare n'ot tru^ yiem* ray did and early fridnid, with a ahil- 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 10 J 

ling- !” — The besotted creature seemed to comprehend the suspicion 
of his friend, and again he burst into tears. 

Mr. Atherton was a judicious and an honest man ; and he did not 
con(;eive, that he discharged his conscience by parting with his 
money. He endeavored to study the necessities of the subject, 
before he administered relief. He agreed with his host, Mr. Soder, 
that nothing could save this unhappy man, but a compulsory process 
of abstinence, and that even this would be extremely doubtful. — 
“ And how,” said Mr. Atherton, “ can such a process be apjdied ?” 
— “ It is verv difficult to say,” replied Mr. Soder ; “ the very best 
thing, that could be done, would be to put him into the poor-house, 
but the little annuity, which he draws, twice a year, and drinks out 
in a fortnight, is in the way of such a measure ; for the selectmen 
will not receive any subject, who has the visible means of support ; 
besides, Mr. Burley has been so respectable, that they would be 
very unwilling to adopt such a measure, unless the case were one 
of absolute necessity.” 

After much painful reflection, Mr. Atherton was constrained to 
abandon this miserable man to his fate. He seemed to be absolutely 
brutalized and lost. Before his departure, he had requested Mr. 
Soder to consider poor Burley’s case, and, if any suggestion 
should present itself, for the betterment of his condition, to draw on 
him, at the South, for any amount, wliich he might find it necessary 
to employ. 

Day and night, after his departure, the mind of Mr. Atherton 
continued to be haunted, by the disgusting image of his disfigured 
and degraded friend. There are no high places of safety, thought 
Mr. Atherton, against the indiscriminate ravages of this insatiable 
destroyer. The hewer of wood and the drawer of water may be its 
victim, to-day; and, to-morrow, the educated and the refined. At 
one moment, it prostrates the man of fallen fortune, who dies of 
drunkenness and despair ; at another, it strikes down the opulent, in 
the midst of many friends. 

During a period of five years, Mr. Atherton had received no infor- 
mation of Burley’s fatq ; nor a line from Mr. Soder, notwithstand- 
ing his promise to communicate any information, which might be 
of importance, in relation to this unhappy man. Mr. Atherton's 
health had become so much improved, that it no longer furnished 
any inducement for a journey into New England. When, therefore, 
at the expiration of this period, he again found himself approaching 
its shores, his motives were those exclusively of business. No con 
siderations, but those of pity, could move him to make further inqui 
ties respecting Burley. Mr. Atherton concluded, on the whole, 

TOL. I. 9* 


102 


RIGHr OPPOSITE. 


tliat Ilf must have fallen a victim to his incorrigible habits. He had 
endeavored, unsuccessfully however, to adopt, in relation to this old 
friend, the fashion of the Hebrews, who figuratively bury their apos- 
tates alive, and speak of them forever after, as numbered with the 
dead. His recollections of early days were like refluent billows, 
and his efforts to forget were as transient as frail marks upon the 
sand. 

He determined, once more, to visit the spot. — lie arrived in the 
evening, and alighting at the tavern, resolved, without any previous 
inquirv, as soon as he had taken a little refreshment, to repair alone 
to tlip. II welling, in which he had found him last ; to see the wretched 
man if alive, or to learn the circumstances of his death, if he were 
no more. 

He reached the humble dwelling and tapped at the door ; — it was 
opened by a young woman of respectable appearance, to whom Mr. 
Atherton put the question if Mr. Burleyresided there: — “No, 
sir,” was the reply, “my husband has lived here three years, or 
nearly so.” — “ Pray,” said Mr. Atherton, “ is Mr. Thomas Bur- 
ley living ?” — “ Oh yes, sir,” she replied, “ he is alive and well : 
he passed by, about two hours ago.” — “ Will you be kind enough 
to inform me where he lives!” — '•'‘Right opposite.’’'' — “ Right oppo- 
site!” said Mr. Atherton, with evident surprise. — “Yes, sir,” 
replied the young woman, "right opposite.^' — At this moment, a 
door opened, at the end of the entry, and a young man came forward 
from a shoe-maker's shop, apparently attracted by their continued 
conversation. — “Husband,” said the young woman, “here is a 
gentleman, who is inquiring after Mr. Burley.” — “Eight years 
ago,” said Mr. Atherton, addressing the husband, “I inquired at 
this very door, for the residence of Mr. Burley, and was told by a 
Mr. Soder, that he lived right opposite. Five years ago, I applied 
over the way, and was informed again that he lived right opposite. 
And now I receive the same answer from you. Pray, sir, inform 
me, has Mr. Burley reformed!” — “ Oh yes, sir,” said the young 
man, with a smile upon his countenance; “ he could not well do 
otherwise, for he got no spirit. The case is just this : one of liis 
chaps died of a fever, and the other was drowned ; and then he 
lost his annuity, and they put him in the poor-house. The old 
poor-house was burnt, and when old Mr. Soder died, about three 
years ago, the town bought his big house right opposite, to supply 
its place. Mr. Burley has been in, just about that time. He 
worked on the highways a short spell ; but he is a college-learnt man, 
as perhaps you know ; and he got to be so regular at last, that a 
number of the first folks here, who wanted to have theuf children 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


103 


get more learning than common, persuaded the selectmen to let Mr. 
Burley teach a school. He has tried it about a year, and they think, 
if he can abstain from epiril, he will be able to come out and be 
respected. He fitted Squire Blaney’s son for college, and they say 
he was the best fitted of all that entered this year.” — The shoe- 
maker’s wife noticed that Mr. Atherton repeatedly applied his 
handkerchief to his eyes. “Is Mr. Burley any kin to 30U, sirl” 
said she. — “None at all,” said Mr. Atherton. “I am as much 
rejoiced to hear this good news, however, as though he were.” — 
He thanked the good people for their information, and returned to 
the inn, resolving to visit Burley on the morrow. 

The impression, produced upon the mind of Mr. Atherton, by 
this intelligence, can scarcely be described. The warmth of his 
heart, and the fertility of his imagination, were immediately brought 
into vigorous action ; and, before he had reached the tavern, he had 
already devised a variety of plans, for the advantage of })Oor Burley. 
The benevolence of Mr. Atherton sprang spontaneously from the 
natural soil of the heart. It was the benevolence of a cold-water 
man, and not likely to evaporate with the fumes of any unnatura 
stimulus, employed for its production. 

As soon as he had entered his apartment, at the inn, he sent for 
the host, and expressed a wish to have a little conversation with 
him, respecting a Mr. Burley, who was an inmate of the village 
poor-house. The inn-holder, who was a remarkably civil man, 
observed, that he had not been long a resident in the town, and 
could not give him much information upon the subject ; but that the 
selectmen were there, in session, in an adjoining room, and he had 
no doubt the chairman would be happy to step in, and answer his 
questions, if he desired it, as soon as the meeting should be over. 
Mr. Atherton said he should be particularly obliged to him, if he 
would. The inn-holder went out, and soon returned with a mes- 
sage, that the chairman would be happy to wait upon him, in a 
short time. “ Mr. Burley’s case,” said the inn-holder, “ is rather 
remarkable.” — “ Yes, sir,” said Mr. Atherton, “ his education, and 
property did not appear to indicate, that he would come upon the 
town for support.” — “ Why, as to that, sir,” the inn-holder replied, 
“ I suppose, that very rich and very learned men will sometimes 
become drunkards, and get into the poor-house, if they venture upon 
the dangerous experiment of taking spirit. I referred more particu- 
larly to Mr. Burley’s reformation. It has been a toum talk here, 
for nearly two years.” — At this moment the door opened, and a 
person entered, about forty years of age, vi ith a prepossessing and 
very intelligent countenance, whom the inn-holder announced as 


104 


RIGHT OPPOSITK, 


the chairman of the selectmen. — After a short pause, “I under- 
stand, sir,” said he, “ that you wish to ask some questions respecting 
Mr. Burley.” — “ Yes, sir,” said Mr. Atherton. “ I feel no ordi- 
nary interest in his fate ; he was an early friend of mine. I saw 
him, about five years ago, in a condition extremely miserable and 
degraded. I passed a night, in your village, at that time, with a 
Mr. Soder, who appeared to take some interest in the fate of this 
poor man, and promised to write me ; I understand the old gentle- 
man is dead.” — “Yes, sir,” replied the chairman, “he has been 
dead rather more than three years. I presume your name is Ather- 
ton, sir, is it not?” — “ It is,” said Mr. Atherton, with some little 
indication of surprise. — “Mr. Soder,” rejoined the chairman, 
“ was my father, and he would have wrtten you, if he could have 
conveyed any information, which would have given you pleasure. 
It was but yesterday morning, that my mother, who is yet living, 
was remarking, as Mr. Burley walked by, that she wished Mr. 
Atherton could witness the extraordinary change, in this poor man’s 
appearance. And I can assure you, sir, that it is not in his appear- 
ance only.” — “ Mr. Soder,” said Mr. Atherton, taking him by the 
hand, “ you cannot imagine the pleasure I receive from this intelli- 
gence. — “Oh yes I can, sir,” said Mr. Soder, “for I have heard 
my father and mother both speak of the kind interest, which you 
took in this unhappy man. With your permission, Mr. Atherton, I 
will give you some account of all that has passed in relation to Mr. 
Burley, since you was last in the village.” — Mr. Atherton assured 
him, that he should be truly obliged to him for the information. 

“ I will just observe, in the outset,” said Mr. Soder, “ that Mr. 
Burley was probably drunk, for the first time in his life, in this very 
room ; and from that time, he was constantly in the habit of carous- 
ing, in this very spot, drinking and playing cards with old Colonel 
Cozy, and a few of the same stamp, until he had wasted his whole 
property. This house is, at present, a temperance tavern.” — “ I 
thought so,” said Mr. Atherton, “ from an observation of the host.” 
— “Yes, sir,” continued Mr. Soder, “and an excellent house it 
is ; the proprietor is a temperance man from principle, and not one 
of those, who conceive, that the friends of temperance are bound to 
support a wretched establishment, and pay first rate charges for 
fourth rate comforts and accommodations, merely because the pro- 
prietor has resolved to sell no" spirit. Old Cozy, the former land- 
lord, died four years ago, on a thanksgiving day. At four o'clock 
in the afternoon, after a hearty meal, he dropped the tankard from 
his hand, kicked over the table, and expired in a fit. — I think it 
was about four years and a half ago, that Mr. Burley lost both his 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


m 


boys, and with them an annuity, depending upon their lives. The 
loss of the annuity removed the only obstacle to his reception at the 
poor-house. My father said it was the only chance for him, though 
a doubtful one. He was not posted, as a common drunkard ; and 
nis removal to the poor-house produced a considerable sensation in the 
village. An hundred acts of kindness and generosity were recalled; 
which he had performed in better days. But there appeared to be no 
other course. He was found sound asleep, not far from a grog-shop, 
on a very cold night, and the next morning he awoke in the w'ork- 
house. He'was carried through the usual process of seasoning, as 
we call it.” — “Pray, sir,” said Mr. Atherton, “ what is that?” — 
“ Why, sir,” rejoined the chairman, “ we give them no ardent spirit, 
Avithout any regard to their previous habits. They become extreme- 
ly weak ; and their countenances are expressive of the greatest 
human misery. They commonly believe they shall die. But they 
are mistaken, to a man. I have had the supervision of the town’s 
poor, for several years ; and, although we have received drunkards 
of both sexes, in every stage of the habit, and have adhered scru- 
pulously to the system of total abstinence, we have not lost a sub- 
ject, as we believe, in consequence of such a course. Such is the 
practice throughout the state, and such it has been, in these estab- 
lishments, for many years, without any relation to the general 
temperance reform. Nothing could exceed the earnestness of Mr. 
Burley’s importunities for rum. He has told me since, that he 
expected to die, for the want of it ; and that nothing could exceed 
the horrors, which he then endured. — He was certainly the lasi 
man, in whom I should have expected a reformation. We treated 
him as we treated others ; and in about a fortnight, when he began 
to recover his strength, which, by the way, is the common time, he 
was sent out with a gang of hands to work on the highway. He 
took his lot very hardly. When any persons passed, whom he had 
known, he usually contrived to work with his back towards them. 
My father came home, one day, and said it would not be a miracle, 
if Burley should reform ; for he had slopped and conversed with 
him, on the road, apart from the other hands, and that the pool 
man appeared exceedingly mortified at his past misconduct; and 
that his conversation gave evidence of a full possession of his under- 
standing. Not long before the old poor-house was destroyed by 
fire, he desired to speak to me alone. ‘ Mr. Soder,’ said he, ‘ 1 
trust I am sufficiently humbled. I am sensible, that I have brought 
my misfortunes and my disgrace upon my own head, with my 
OAvn hands ; and if you have any disposition to do me a great favor, 
I will show vou the way. Notwithstanding my degradation, 1 am 


106 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


not so low, even in my own esteem, as not to be deeply sensible of 
my disgrace, in being sent to labor upon tbe highway. I feel my- 
self able, and I am more than willing, to teach a village school, or 
even to prepare lads for the university. Am I so entirely lost, that 
nobody will trust me?’ — He burst into an agony of tears. — But I 
fear, Mr. Atherton,” said Mr. Soder, “ I fear I give you unneces- 
s.’ry pain.” — “ Not at all, sir,” said the other, as he wiped the tears 
from his eyes, “ you give me nothing but a melancholy pleasure.” 
— “ Well, sir,” continued the narrator, “ I was much moved by his 
appeal, and I told him, he should not be so employed any more, and 
I would see what I could do for him. The first person, to whom I 
spoke upon the subject, was Squire Blaney, of our village. — 
‘ Try him,’ said he, ‘ I ’ll send my son to him to-morrow. If Bur- 
ley will keep sober, and teach a school, there will not be his equal 
ill the county.’ Nothing could surpass his grateful emotion, when 1 
communicated the success of my very first application. ‘ I thought,’ 
said he, ‘ that I was alone in the world ; but I find I am not. I did 
not expect this from Squire Blaney ; if there was a man in the village, 
who disliked and despised me, I thought he was that man. How 
erringly we judge of one another ! Tell Mr. Blaney,’ said he, ‘ that I 
have forgotten many injuries in this world, but never a benefit ; and 
that I will strive to show him, by my dealings with his son, how I 
-estimate this act of kindness to a fallen man.’ — ‘ Mr. Burley,’ said 
I, ‘if you only act as you talk, the past will be forgotten.’ — 
‘ Then,’ said he, ‘ by the blessing of God, it shall be forgotten.’ — 
From that time to the present, he has conducted, in the most exem- 
plary manner. He has constantly abstained from ardent spirit. 
He gave Mr. Blaney entire satisfaction, in the preparation of his 
son for the university ; and has now about twenty scholars, to 
whom he is entirely devoted. He is not in the poor-house, except 
by his own wish. His apartments indeed are entirely distinct, and 
altogether neat and comfortable. We assent to his continuance, 
as he has expressed an opinion, that, although he does not think 
he should fall into temptation, he deems himself safer there for a 
time ; and his services, in various ways, meet the expenses of his 
board and lodging. The compensation, paid him for tuition, with 
the exception of his ordinary expenses, he scrupulously devotes to 
tiie payment of his debts. The very first debt, which he discharged, 
from these resources, was a dram-seller’s score; he observed, that 
it was the first, which ne would 1 ave blotted from the books of his 
creditors, for it was the first, whic h he desired to blot from his own 
recollection. — He often speaks o1 you, Mr. Atherton, with great 
affection ; and I shi I be happy to v'all for you in tne morning, and 


RIGHT OPPOSITE 


107 


you ^vill have an opportunity of judfring for yourself.” Mr. Ather- 
ton expressed ag-ain the delight he received from this account of Mr. 
Burley’s reformation; and, soon after Mr. Soder had taken his 
leave, he retired for the night. 

Agreeably to his promise, Mr. Soder called, at an early hour, 
upon the following morning, and proceeded with Mr. Atherton to 
the poor-house. — “ It is likely, sir,” said Mr. Soder, as they drew 
near, “ that Mr. Burley would be pleased to see you alone ; and 1 
will show you into the overseers’ room, and let him know of your 
arrival.” — Mr. Atherton thanked him for his kindness, and was 
shown into the very parlor, in which he had been received, by Bur- 
ley himself, just eight years be^re. 

In a short time, Mr. Burley entered the apartment. — The two 
friends shook hands, and sat down by the side of each other, but 
neither could utter a syllable. The tear was in Atherton’s eye, but 
his features were lighted up by a smile of cordial satisfacticn. He 
was evidently surprised and gratified, by the appearance of his old 
friend. He was thin and pale, neatly dressed, in a coarse suit of 
gray, and nothing remained to identify the miserable being, whom 
Mr. Atherton had left five years before, utterly degraded and for- 
lorn. — Burley bit his lip, and struggled hard to suppress his emo- 
tion. — He was the fiist to break silence. — “ This is very kind in 
you,” said he, “ and I can truly say I have more joy to see you here, 
under these humiliating circumstances, than I had to see you, in the 
same place, eight years ago. I was then the master of this house ; 
by the blessing of God, I trust I am now the master of myself.” — 
“ You are a rich man,” said Mr. Atherton, grasping him by the 
hand, “ for you have gotten wisdom, which is better than rubies.” 

Mr. Atherton urged his old friend to spend the residue of his days 
at the South, to make his house his future home ; and to occupy 
his time, in the instruction of youth, as the preceptor of an academy. 
The good people of the village were extremely unwilling to part 
w ith a man who bid fair to be as useful, in the last of his days, as 
he had been worse than useless, in the beginning. It was finally 
settled, however, that Mr. Burley should accept the proposal of his 
friend, giving the parents of his present pupils six months’ notice of 
his intention. 

The residue of this narrative may be briefly recited. Mr. Burley’s 
career, during the remaining six months, was perfectly consistent ; 
and he gave entire satisfaction to his friends, who continued to 
increase in numbers, till the period of his departure. 

It is now nine years, since he became an inmate in the family of 
Mr. Atherton, and the principal of an academy in the town of . 


108 


RIGHT OPPOSITE. 


The case of Mr. Burley is one of the most impressive examples cP 
the effects of total abstinence in breaking that fatal spell, which can 
bend down the master-spirits of the age in the very dust of the eartli. 
No graduated process, nothing but total abandonment could ha^e 
wrought this signal reformation. 

No more forcible evidence can be supplied of the confidence, 
reposed in Mr. Burley, by the friends of temperance, than the fact, 
that two years ago he was requested to deliver an address, before the 
temperance society, in the town in which he resides. He accepted 
the invitation ; and few, who listened to his remarks, will ever forget 
them. He said, that he was entirely willing to make a sacrifice of 
his own feelings, for the sake of his fellow-man. He proceedea, 
though he was frequently interrupted by his own emotion, to give 
the history of his own fall and restoration. There was not a dry 
eye in the assembly. 

Mr. Burley is still living, a consistent cold-water man. He haa 
lived down an evil name ; and however unworthy and degraded h« 
may have been, he is now right opposite. 


FEITZ HAZELL 


rt I** poMitle, »ay aome of our worthy friends, who have not thoroughly studied that ra 
aaisbo'.y ch»;>isr, in the volume of human misery, which treats of drunkenness in all its shapes ^ 
l»w cat it te lossible, that so many tales can he written upon a topic, which has, Ion? sincti, Ksi 
the nap jf novelty, and become as threadbare as a castaway garment? 'I'he means of i/ruiikeiiness. 
which liave been desiderata, in every age and nation of the earth, are inlinite ; the mod ideations ol 
driinkeiiness are intiniie ; and the eflects of drunkenness are infinite. Nothing it required, but tw 
additional turn ol the great moral kaleidoscope, the tithe of a hair, and we have a new configuratica 
of sin and misery. To-day, drunkenness, proitiiced by lum, prostrates some wretcl ed outcast, in tbu 
gutter; to-morrow, drunkenness on cosily wine, or, in more fashionable parlance, “a little indil- 
gmee," gives an tinexpei ted turn to the paragraph of some hot-lieaded negotiator, and a wholt 
nation, cursed with all ihe consequent calamities of war, may regret the hour', when his excellency 
removed the cork from Ins hist bottle of champagne. At one moment, under the influence of thta 
awful scourge, the wife becomes a widow ; at another, when the hurricane. of a drunkard’s wratn 
like the simoom of the desert, has passed away, and all is still, the child creeps irnm ns hiding* 
place, and flies in terror, from. the scene of domestic desolation, motherless, fatherle.ss, and forlorn. 

It .''as also been a shbject of inquiry, if these Tales, as they profess to be, are really founded upss. 
fact. Assiiiedly they aie. The parasitical plant clings not more closely to the oak, than a certain 
descr'piion of embellishment gathers about the real and substantial part of these little narratives. 
But the actial louodaiion of these “Temperance Tales'* is, in every instance, a plain matter of 
fact, cumii unicaied to the writer by some obliging friend, in the same manner, in which a rare and 
valuable shell is presemeil to a conchologist. Nothing, but a want of intimate knowledge, can mis- 
lead any individual, for the subject matter of a teiTiperance tale, to the fancy storehouse of his own 
imagination, rather than to the great bazaar of real life. The most extravagant conceptions of the 
brain tre less likely to bewilder and astonish, than the drunken realities of the world, in which we 
live. So long, therefore, as the abundant stock of real wretchedness remains, which is presented, as 
a consequence of intemperance, and in such an endless variety of form, we shall have but little 
occas.oii to seek the warp and woof, in our own imagination, for the manufacture of such articles aa 
these. 

If the history of Fritz Hazell should prove too long, or too heavy a tax upon the reader’s patience, 
the only saiisfactor/ atonement, w hich we can offer, or which occurs to us, at the present moment, it 
to make the ensuing number proportionately shorter; and such shall be the narrative of Johnny 
Hodge* the Blacksmith. 


“Do I not hear some one erpng murder?” said a stranger, in a 
sailor’s garb, addressing an old Dutchman, who sat smoking his 
pipe, upon the stoop before his door, in an obscure part of the village 
of Still- V alley. The Dutchman slowly withdrew the pipe from his 
mouth; and, when the volley of smoke, which issued forth, had 
sufficiently cleared away, to enable him to obtain a fair view of the 
inquirer, “ Yaw, mynheer,” he replied. — “I hear it again,” said 
the sailor ; “ it grows louder ; what can be the meaning of it?” — 
“ Vy,” the old Dutchman replied, “ it ish no more nor no less dan 
dish here ; Patrick McFillagin, vat lives in dat shmall house dere, 
mit de gaple end, ish a drubbing Matty McFillagin, his vrow. Pat- 
rick gets drunk, and Matty gets drunk, and just apout now, every 
day he gives her a beating, and she cries murder; dat ish all.” — 
“ My friend,” said the stranger, “ that cry is occasioned by nc com- 
mon cause ; — there, don’t you hear that shriek? — and now it is all 
•till again. I should not wonder, if it were murder, in sober ear* 
rot. 1 . 10 


110 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


nest.” — “Vary veil,” replied the Dutchman, who was in the act 
of restoring the pipe to his mouth, “ may pe so.” 

^^he stranger expressed his intention of going immediately to as- 
certain the cause. “ Shtop,” cried the Dutchman, layii g his hand 
upon the man’s arm, “ McFillagin, ven he ish in a sphree, ish as 
crazy as a herring buss, in a gale, mitout a rudder ; and ye had 
better shtay away. — But let me see, dere ish de poor poy, leetle 
Patrick. Poor lad, ven it blows too hard for him, at home, he often 
makes a port under my shtoop here. Sometime it ish late, ven liis 
fader kick him out of door, and he come over after I goes to bed, 
and he lay just here all night, and 1 finds him curled up in de morn- 
ing, like a leetle tog. And den he ish so glad of a leetle biscuit 
and a salt herring, and he cries so pad, ven I tells him he must go 
home. — He ish a goot poy ; — I had a leetle poy once myself ; just 
such a poy was my leetle Fritz, just such a poy is Patrick.” 

The interest, which he felt in the fate of little Patrick, increased, 
as it obviously was, by his associated recollections of the child he 
had lost, completely overcame the old Dutchman’s phlegm ; and he 
proceeded with the stranger to McFillagin’s dwelling. — All was 
stillness within. They called at the door, but received no reply. 
It was bolted on the inside. After knocking repeatedly in vain, they 
were at length answered, by a deep, hollow groan. — “Here ish 
trouble,” said the Dutchman ; and, by the application of his power- 
ful shoulder, he soon burst open the door. — An awfully loathsome 
scene presented itself to their view. McFillagin and his wife were 
both extended on the floor, covered with blood ; tables and chairs, 
bottles and glasses were broken and scattered about the room. A 
brief inspection assured the visitors, that the woman was already 
dead ; her skull was fractured, and she had received several stabs 
in the body. The man was just expiring, having cut his throat 
from ear to ear ; though speechless, he still held the bloody knife 
in his hand. — “Patrick, leetle Patrick!” exclaimed the Dutch- 
man. — All was silence. — He then put his mouth to the dying 
man’s ear, and exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, “Have ye mur- 
dered de leetle chiltl” — The miserable victim of intemperance made 
a feeble motion of his head, to the right and left ; and, with a slight 
convvilfiion, expired. The old man proceeded to look under the beo 
and in the closets, for the little boy. Lighting a candle, he de- 
scended with the stranger into the cellar. — “ Patrick, Patrick, poor 
leeile poy.” cried the old man, with a winning gentleness of man- 
ner, utter.V at variance with his uncommonly rough and inauspicious 
exterior; “come out, leetle poy, here’s old friend Hazell, come to 
take cai5 vf ye, poor chilt !”-rA slight movtment \yas heard m a 





r.7/?nf (t 


H^XZELL 









FRITZ HAZELL. 


Ill 


corner of the cellar ; and the poor terrified child was seen pfe<?ring 
forth from the ash-hole, whither he had fled for refuge, from the 
domestic hurricane, which had left him fatherless and motherless. 

Man’s imagination, under its highest pressure, could not produce 
a more moving example of helplessness and terror. This bare- 
footed and ragged little urchin, whom misery had adopted for its 
own, looked warily from his place of refuge, and half recoiled at the 
sight of the stranger. The old Dutchman placed himself before the 
ash-hole, and endeavored to coax him forth, with that kind of whin- 
ing importunity, which is sometimes employed to seduce an oft- 
beat.en dog from his covert. — “ Come out, leetle Patrick,” said he, 
extending his hand, in the most encouraging manner, and twisting 
his weather-beaten features into a smile ; “ don’t pe feared, leetle 
poy, it’s nopody but old Hazell.” — Thus comforted and assured, 
the poor child ventured forth ; and, drawing as closely as possible 
to the old Dutchman, he held fast by his garments, with the ner- 
vous grasp of a drowning boy. Trembling and agonized with terror, 
he cried, in a whispering voice, “ You won’t let father kill me, will 
you?” — “ No, my poy,” replied the old man, as he wiped the tear 
from his eye. — “Won’t you let me live with you?” cried little 
Patrick, in the most beseeching tone ; “ I will do everything you 
tell me ; oh, do let me go home with you, Mr. Hazell.” While he 
uttered this supplication, he laid hold of the old man’s hand, and 
covered it with kisses and tears. This was too much for an old 
Dutchman’s heart. After a momentary effort to control his strong 
natural feelings, “ Mynheer,” said the old man, “ vat shall pe done 
mit dish poor leetle toad ?” — “ It is a bad case,” said the stranger, 
looking at his watch ; “I should think it would be best to send for 
the coroner.” — “ Yy, dat ish for de dead ; vat goot vill de coroner 
do, for dish leetle poy ? dat ish vat I say, mynheer.” 

The stranger was one of that numerous class, who fly instantly to 
the rescue, upon the cry of murder or of fire ; and whose benevolence 
is particularly active, while the scene and the circum stances of afflic- 
tion are of a busy and stimulating character ; but who have no taste 
for the subsequent detail, for the humble process of quietly balancing 
the final account of misery. He was therefore somewhat perplexed, 
by the Dutchman’s practical interrogatory. — After a short pause, 
he replied, “ Why, T suppose the neighbors will see, that he is taken 
care of.” — “ Yaw, mynheer,” rejoined the old man ; “ but who ish 
de neighbors, as it ish written in de goot book ? If old Haz(jll vas so 
poor, dat he could not py a sa’t herring, he would send voord over 
de great pond ; and he would find neighbors in Amsterdam, I var- 
iant. Now, mynheer, look at dish here ragged, leetle poy ; ven he 


J12 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


make up his face, and cry just like dat, if I had not put my leetle 
Fritz in de ground, mit my own hand, I should say, sure it ish do 
same chilt.” — Old Hazell patted little Patrick on the head, and 
bade him wipe his eyes; “ Pe a goot chilt,” said the old man, 
“ and I vill pe a kind father to ye, and I shall call ye Fritz, after 
de poor poy, vat I buried.” 

The little fellow cried louder for joy, than he had cried for sorrow. 
— The benevolence of the Scotch and the Irish has been contradistin- 
guished, by a pleasant writer, who affirms that a Scotchman will 
walk all over Aberdeen, to serve a friend, to whom he would refuse 
a baubee ; while an Irishman, upon a like occasion, will empty his 
pocket of its last farthing, though he will not go a mile. The phi- 
lanthropy of the stranger was somewhat of the Irish character. He 
caught the contagion of the scene before him ; and, taking out his 
pocket-book, handed the Dutchman a two-dollar bill, to be employed 
in any way he might think proper for the boy’s advantage ; promis- 
ing, at the same time, to call at the Dutchman’s house to inquire 
after the child’s welfare. 

Little Patrick, whom, from a respect for the old Dutchman’s wishes, 
we shall hereafter call by no other name than Fritz, was immedi- 
ately removed to his new quarters. The rags in which he liad been 
so long enveloped, were thrown aside ; and, with a measure of sen- 
sibility, utterly at variance with the general appearance of the_^ out- 
ward man, the old Dutchman unlocked a particular trunk, and drew 
forth a complete suit of boy’s wearing apparel. “ Go into de 
chamber, my poy,” said he, “ and put ’em on ; I hope ye vill pe as 
goot a chilt, as de leetle fellow, vat vore ’em last.” — When he 
returned, clad in his new apparel, the old man’s recollections com- 
pletely overpowered him ; he took the child upon his knee, and 
seemed, as he wept over him, almost to realize that he held com- 
munion with his long-buried boy. 

An inquest was held forthwith upon the bodies of Patri(;k McFil- 
ngin and Matty his wife. It was an occasion of peculiar interest to 
the coroner. He kept the grog-shop, four doors above McFillagin’s 
house, and he deeply felt the loss of two such valuable customers. 
Old Hazell and the sailor appeared before the jury, and related the 
fads, as they have already been recited ; but Mr. McFlaggon, the 
Irish coroner, persuaded the jury, that they ought not to decide upon 
circumstantial evidence, and that it would be very wrong to hurt the 
poor people’s feelings, after they were dead. Accordingly they 
brought in a verdict of accidental death. — “ Veil,” said old Hazell, 
when he heard of the verdict, “ dat ish droll enough ; here ish 
McFUlngini vat geft drunk, and kill kis vife, and cut hie own throat 


FRITZ HAZELL. 113 

.•:& aure as viskey ; ami McFlaggon, vat sell de rum, say it ish acci- 
dental; veil, dat peats me and all de Dutch peside.” 

The horrible outrage, which we have just now related, produced 
no ordinary measure of excitement, in the village of Still-Valley. 
There is something extremely romantic in this simple appellation 
When I entered this village, for the first time in my life, through a 
cluster of tall hills, by which it is surrounded, I fancied the hamlet 
before me to be, of all places upon earth, the abode of peace. — 
Still-V alley ! A more appropriate name could not have been chosen 
for this sequestered spot! — “ Pray, sir,” said I to an aged man, 
whom I met, at the entrance of the village, “ do the habits of the 
people, in this neighborhood, continue to justify the name, which they 
have chosen for their valley 1” — “ Why, as to that, sir,” he replied, 
“ since the late murder, the temperance folks have been making 
something of a stir here, and one of the distilleries has stopped. 
For several years there have been commonly four at work in the 
valley.” — “Bless me I” I exclaimed, “then it takes its name 
from the distilleries. I had fallen into an extraordinary mistake ; 1 
thought it had obtained its title from the quietness of the spot.” — 
The old man laughed heartily at my simplicity, and assured me that 
1 was altogether mistaken ; and that he doubted, if a population of 
fifteen hundred noisier people could be found in the commonwealth. 

Midnight broils, broken heads, and bloody noses were as common 
in Still-Valley, as in any other village, possessing equal facilities for 
Intoxication ; but the late atrocious murder of Patrick and Matty 
McFillagin had produced an unusual sensation of horror ; and pre- 
pared the way for the introduction of the temperance reform. With 
a population of not more than fifteen hundred inhabitants, this village 
contained four distilleries, five taverns, and nine shops or stores, at 
which ardent spirit might be obtained. The greater part of the vil- 
lagers were as much addicted to the use of rum, as if it were the 
natural beverage of God's appointment. A man, in the opinion of 
the inhabitants of Still-Valley, would have been accounted under- 
witted or insane, who neglected so simple a remedy for nine out of 
ten of all those diseases, that man is heir to. By these inhabitants, 
and their worthy ancestors, through many generations, it had been 
esteemed a perfbct panacea, for every malady within ai^d without. 
For a weak stomachy or a sore shin, or unwelcome news, or a cry- 
ing child, there was, in the opinion of this enlightened community, 
no remedy like rum. Without this necessary stimulus, the good- 
man could not go to mill, nor the good- wife hang on her kettle. 
'Fhese villagers could not conclude “ a trade,’’^ about a horse-cart oi 
a heifer, a little rum. The lawyer, the minister, and the 

VOL. I 10 * 


114 


FRITZ HAZEIJ 


doctor could not plead, nor preach, nor prescribe, without a litth 
rum. If all the rum-jugs in Still-Valley had been the tutelary dei- 
ties of the people, they could not have been worshipped with a supC" 
rior measure of devotion They were the objects of their first 
attention, in the morning, and the last, at night. A dead drunkard 
could not be committed to the place, appointed for all living, with- 
out a parade, at the side of the coffin, which contained his remains, 
of that very poison, which had brought him to his end ; and the 
friends and relatives, in honor of the dead, drank a little of the 
poison, which destroyed him. Rum was not only the appropriate 
beverage of the heavy-laden, but the oil of joy for the merry-hearted.. 
He who gave way to his feelings, so far as to be fuddled, at a fune- 
ral of this description, might be considered as paying a practical 
tribute of sympathy and respect to the departed ; while, on the other 
hand, a wedding feast, conducted on principles of perfect sobriety, 
portended an insipid honey-moon, and an extremely stupid and mo- 
notonous career. At the period of the McFillagin murder, a propo- 
sition to pull down the meeting-house, and convert the burying- 
gnround into a corn-field, would not have appeared a more outrageous 
attempt upon the liberties of the people, than the proposition of total 
abstinence from ardent spirits ; contemplating, as it obviously does, 
an abridgment of the liberty of being drunk. These villagers had 
proceeded, year after year, like the inhabitants of many other towns, 
in a career of perfect inconsistency. They had entered the temples 
of the Lord immemorially, on the Sabbath day ; and the temples of 
Baal, on every other day of the week. They regularly insulted the 
majesty of Heaven, on God’s holy day, by offering their heartless 
prayers, not to be led into temptation ; while they were fearlessly 
throwing themselves in the way of it, from Monday morning to Sat- 
urday night. From the first of January to the last of December, in 
every year, a considerable number of miserable beings, who, of 
course, had once been temperate men, descended into the drunkard’s 
grave ; and, as the drinkers were infatuated by their insatiable appe- 
tite for liquor, and the sellers were blinded by their reckless cupid- 
ity, the curse of intemperance appeared to be entailed, with all it« 
horrible and loathsome retinue of evils, upon the village of Still- • 
Valley. 

News of the McFillagin murder flew from one end of the valley 
to the other ; it found its way into the village newspaper, accompa- 
nied with an invitation to the villagers to combine for the purpose 
of abolishing the use of ardent spirits. The incident of the little 
orphan boy, and the charitable regard to this unfortunate child, 
exhibited by “our worthy townsman,” Mr. Peter Hazell, were by 


rarfz HAZfeLL. 


115 


no means forgotten. The citizens, friendly to the cause of temper- 
ance, M^ere invited to assemble on a particular day, at the town-hall, 
for the promotion of this laudable object. This invitation appears 
to have excited the indignation of a considerable number of the tip 
piers, toddy-makers, and toad-eaters of Still- Valley. They paraded 
with colors flying ; and, marching with the implements of their pro- 
fession, to a neighboring hill, they planted their standard, and 
bestowed upon the spot the title of Merry Mount ; the very name, 
given by Morton and his followers to Mount Wollaston, in early 
times ; and which appellation was afterwards changed, by good old 
Gov. Endicott, to Mount Dagon. Here these advocates of “ liberal 
principles listened to an extempore oration upon liberty and equal- 
ity, from Tim Smith, the Mirabeau of the valley. Tim concluded, 
by smashing two empty bottles together, which was followed by 
three cheers from the whole company. Colonel Pandowdy, who 
was once a worthy farmer, but could not withstand the shock of 
military glory, and ruined himself by training and treating, oflfered 
sundry spirit-stirring resolutions ; the last of which contained a pro- 
posal to spend the evening, in a rational manner, at McFlaggon’s 
shop. These resolutions were received with shouts of applause, 
and passed by acclamation. 

After passing the day in this praiseworthy manner, this interest- 
ing group, considerably augmented in the evening, by journeymen 
and apprentices, and follow'ed by a train of idle and curious persons, 
repaired to the sign of the Pot of Ale, where the worthy McFlag- 
gon, the man of the people, forewarned of their intention, stood 
ready to bid them welcome ; having provided himself, for the occa- 
sion, with two supernumerary tapsters. 

The majority of this assembly, it cannot be denied, were more 
ready for rebellion, than for the exercise of their reasoning powers. 
McFlaggon, himself, had no idea of the highly excited condition of 
his visitors. — “ Three cheers for McFlaggon, the friend of the rights 
of man,” cried Tim Smith, as the mob, for such it was, drew up in 
front of the rum-seller’s door. Three cheers were immediately sent 
forth from the top of their lungs. — “ Gentlemen,” McFlaggon ex- 
claimed, holding up both his hands, in a supplicating manner, “ any- 
thing, which my shop contains, is entirely at your service ; but you 
know the stir, that is getting up in the village, on account of tem- 
perance, and 1 beg you to spare my ” “ Six cheers for temper- 

ance,” cried Peter Buckram, the drunken tailor, as he sUmhI, 
supporting himself, by the fence, over the way. The fancy took 
with every member of the multitude ; and six cheers have been 
seldom delivered with greater energy, by an equal number of men 


116 


FRITZ HA2ELL. 


and boys. — “ For Heaven’s sake, gentlemen, have some regard for 
the reputation of my shop. Here, gentlemen, for ten years, I have 
sold ardent spirit in peace ; I beseech you, gentlemen, to disperse ; 
to-morrow, all that my shop contains, shall be at your service. Be- 
sides, gentlemen. Deacon Gill, who kept this stand, and sold the 
best of rum, in this very shop, for thirty years, is now on his death- 
bed, on the other side of the way. I pray ycu, gentlemen, to show 
some token of grateful respect for Deacon Gill.” — “ Nine cheers 
for Deacon Gill, cried old Crupper the harness-maker; “ he fiist 
taste I ever got was from the deacon.” — The action of the eleciric 
fluid was scarcely ever more instantaneous, than the obstieperous 
response to this drunken appeal ; how far it contributed to acceler- 
ate the worthy deacon’s exit, we cannot say ; but certain it is, that 
he faintly inquired the cause of the uproar ; and, being informed that 
it was occasioned by a drunken mob, before his old stand, his mind 
appeared to wander, and he feebly cried, “ Lock the till,” and 
expired. 

McFlaggon, foreseeing the impending confusion, instantly pro- 
ceeded to put up his shutters, preparatory to closing his shop. 
Colonel Pandowdy, who had no idea of being prevented from carry- 
ing his resolution into effect, of passing the evening, in a rational 
manner, at McFlaggon’s shop, immediately interposed. — •*Mr 
McFlaggon,” said he, stepping briskly within the door, “two gal- 
lons of whiskey, if you please.” — “Colonel Pandowdy,” replied 
McFlaggon, “ your score is run up pretty well already, and I must 
see the money, before I furnish the liquor. You have promised pay- 
ment every day, for the last three months.” — “ You lie, you old 
rum-selling rascal,” cried the colonel. — McFlaggon attempted to 
expel his customer, and a scuffle ensued. Hence arose a scene of 
confusion, without parallel in the history of grog-shops. In the 
very onset, a demijohn of old Jamaica, which had arrived, that very 
afternoon, from the city, for the special edification of old Madam 
Frizzle, the squire’s widow, was capsized on top of the iron stove. 
The vessel was immediate’ '’oken, and the liquor in flames. Pan 
dcwdy and McFlaggon .'nd writhing in single combat, on 

the floor, were soake'l iisad eiiv©l%i d, in an instant, in five gallons 
of liquid fire. Th*- Jiowd mshed I .o save the precious contents 
of the remaining .;mijohns and b.?' els; but the flames had already 
fastened upon .|ti£ntity of flax jid other combustible articles, and 
the destrnctL.i the shop .ts contents appeared to be inevitable 
The n.inr a;gcriei5 of are s> >. murder had gone forth into the valley , 
the vil’ bell had scai-'ed the alarm; and the Waterspout, for 
Buch -ae IrfjQ AinDojsing atle of a little engine, somewhat exceeding 


FRITZr HAZELL. 


117 


ihe size of a candle-box, soon came trundling along towards th« 
scene of uproar. In the mean lime McFlaggon, wh« had succeeded 
in getting the upperhand, was holding down Colonel Pandowdy in 
the midst of the burning Jamaica. All thought of the destruction of 
his property appeared to be completely swept away, before the hur- 
ricane of an Irishman’s wrath. At length, two or three of the by- 
standers, who were less drunk than the majority, exclaiming that it 
would be a shame, to suffer the colonel to be killed by the coroner 
rushed in, and tore the combatants asunder. They came forth liter- 
ally enveloped in flame, and the engine, which had just begun to 
play, contributed its friendly relief, by showering upon them the 
contents of a neighboring goose-pond, from which it was supplied. 
The premises were entirely consumed ; and the sheriff, who came 
to disperse the mob, finding an unusual collection of his customers 
together, availed of the occasion, and served a goodly number of 
writs and executions. 

The shameful occurrences, to which we have alluded, were obvi- 
ously calculated to give additional interest to the meeting of the 
friends of temperance, which had been appointed for the following 
day. The assembly was highly respectable, in point of numbers, 
and comprised a very large proportion of the substantial inhabitants 
of the valley. It was a subject for surprise and regret to many, that 
neither the doctor, lawyer, nor clergyman was present, at this inter- 
esting meeting. The Reverend Janus Syllabub was in the habit of 
shadowing forth his opinions, upon a great variety of subjects, in 
his ordinary discourses. Without any direct indication of the tem- 
perance reform, he had alluded to it, very plainly, upon more occar 
sions than one. He was of opinion, that societies were needless, 
and that every individual should look to himself ; that pledges were 
traps for the consciences of men ; and that a little, upon extraordi- 
nary occasions, might be taken with safety and propriety, lie 
excused himself for not attending the meeting, having been called 
to administer spiritual consolation to two of his parishioners, who 
were seriously injured at the late conflagration, in mind, body, and 
estate. — The lawyer, Mr. Grippit, candidly admitted that temper- 
ance was “ a good thing," but decllired, that he had not made up 
his mind entirely to total abstinence. He regretted that he could 
not attend, as he was engaged in getting ready for an arbitration <»f 
some matters, in dispute, between Colonel Pandowdy and Mr. Me 
Flaifo-on. — Doctor Manna had stated, that he did not think ardent 
spirits hurtful, used in moderation, for Dr. Holyoke took a little 
every day, and lived an hundred years. Doctor Manna excused 


118 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


himself, for not attending the meethig, on account of his necessaTy 
attendance on two of his patients, who were dangerously burnt, a» 
the late fire. 

Notwithstanding the absence of .hese important personages, the 
meeting was regularly organized ; and the temperance society of 
Still-Valley commenced its operations with more than sixty sub- 
scribers to the pledge of total abstinence. A committee was 
appointed to wait upon Parson Syllabub, Squire Grippit, and Doctor 
Manna, requesting each of these dignitaries, to accept the presi- 
dency of the society ; but “ they all with one consent began to make 
excuse.” The office was finally conferred, by an unanimous vote, 
upon old Captain Hazell, who had surprised many of his neighbors, 
by the excellent good sense of his speech, in favor of the abandon- 
ment of spirituous liquor. Unrestrained by the presence of the 
clergyman, the doctor, and the squire, the plain common sense of 
the substantial citizens of the valley was delivered, by a variety of 
speakers, in ihe most frank and unembarrassed manner. Direct 
allusions were made to those awful and disgraceful exhibitions, 
which had lately been presented in the village ; and old Captain 
Hazell was called upon, by the moderator, to give an account of the 
McFilligan murder. This he performed in the most natural man 
ner; and when, at the conclusion, he pointed to a little boy in the 
gallery, and exclaimed, “ Dat ish de leetle poy dere, mit de gray 
jacket ; dat ish all vat ish saved from de wreck,” all eyes and all 
hearts were gathered to the spot. I'he imperfect character of the 
old man’s English gave an additional attraction to the clear-headed 
and substantial remarks, which it served to convey. Those two 
young men, in the north-east corner of the gallery, who were 
excited to mirth, at the commencement, would probably admit, that 
they were willing and deeply interested listeners, at the close. 

“ Dere ish netting, vat I loves more, in de morning,” said Cap- 
tain Hazell, “ dan a schnap of de old Hollands. I does no py ’em 
here ; it ish de real Schedam Gineva, vat I imports myself from my 
old friends. Van Scrompfen, Broders, and Company, in Amsterdam. 
I have taken a leetle in de morning, and a leetle just afore I goes 
to bed, for forty years. Now, in dish goot cause, I am ready to 
give ’em all up. ’Pon my voord, I am afeard to trink any more. 
Dish last week I gets a letter from Amsterdam, vat tells me, dal 
Rend Van Pelten, de burgomaster, as goot and as great a man as 
ever live, after old Barneveldt de Stadtholder and General Wash- 
ington, ish a poor old toad of a trunkard. If any pody say, ‘ Cap- 
tain Hazell, which ish to pe de first trunkard, you or Van Pelten P 
I would not dare to say it would pe de burgomaster. Poor Van 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


119 


Pelten ish gone on de rocks, a total loss. I vill go right apout, and 
shteer no longer, in de track of de burgomaster. — My old fader 
was vat you call a moderate trinker ; and he die a goot old man, at 
de great age of eighty, and in de use of all his faculties ; only he 
could not shtir a shtep for de gout, for de last ten years. Very veil, 
my fader give de sugar, at de bottom, to my older hroder, Jahn 
Hazell. — Poor fellow ! he took de cursed dishtemper, and kid his 
young brown hair in de trunkard’s grave. Dish was a les& m to 
my fader ; he never gave me a trop in my chilthood, nor till 1 was 
free, at twenty-five. ‘ Now,’ I says to myself, ‘ I am sixty-four • 
it will not pe long pefore I gets to my second chilthood, and I shall 
pe in as much danger den, as I vas in de first.’ — Suppose I say, 
‘ I vill take a leetle, and only upon extraordinary occasions ;’ very 
veil, dat vill do, if de vind hold just so ; but, sure as viskey, I shall 
take a leetle more, ven it ish blowing a leetle harder , and de more 
I takes, de more extraordinary my occasions vill pe. — Here ish an 
old man : he take a leetle rum, every day, for sixty years — he feei 
very safe. But de time vill come, ven he vill have nothing else tf 
do ; ven he cannot eat, and cannot see, and cannot hear ; but he can 
schmell Je vay to de pottle, and trink up de rum ; and dat ish all he 
can do. —Here ish de young man, vat hate de name of a trunkard 
' — he take a leetle every day ; and, ven it ish hot, and de scythe ish 
dull, he take a leetle more. De vife look sober, and bid him take 
care ; — ‘ Vat,’ he say, ‘ do you tink I vill pe a trunkard, and leave 
you and de leetle ones to de care of a cold voorld ? dere ish no dan- 
ger.’ — Peter thought dere vas no danger; but Peter fell, and pride 
cometh pefore de fall. Vill dat young man go mit me now,- to de 
grave-yard ; I vill show him de grave of more dan von, vat vas as 
sure as he ; but who died a poor miserable sot, and vas buried in de 
trunkard 's grave; and left his children and vidow beggary and de 
broken heart. — Now, de temperance folks say de trade in all dish 
here kind of poison ish morally wrong. Dat ish just vat I tinks, 
myself. De rum-seller, he say, ‘ No, it ish all right.’ For vy he 
say so ? Because his fader and his grandfader sell rum fifty year 
ago. His fader and grandfader were deacons, and chairmen of de 
selectmen, and members of de Ginral Court ; and it ish right to sell 
rum now, because it was right den. Now, de vay from Amsterdam 
to Oporto, in old times, vas close to de shore, all round de coast of 
Fiance ; now de vay ish right over de great pond, and outside do 
pay of Biscay, and so on ; and it ish de right vay, though it vas 
not de vay of our faders. Your faders pay tribute to de moder 
country; vas dat de right vay? You say, ‘No;’ you preak de 
fetters, and set up for liberty. Dat ish de very ting ve vants to dft 


120 


FK.TZ HAZELL. 


now. Ve have peen slaves long enough ; and ve ants to preak de 
fetters of shame. Do rum-seller say he sell to temperate men, and 
never to trunkards. Vy, dat ish no more nor no less dan dish here ; 
he sell plenty of rope ; any pody may py as much vat he please, and 
hang himself mit his own hands ; but ven he have hung himself 
and proken his neck once, de goot Christian trader vill not sell him 
anoder inch of do rope. — But de trader hold on to de traffic like 
Van Tromp to de Spanish galleons, in sixteen hunder tirty-nine. 

‘ If I no sell de rope,’ he say, ‘ some oder pody vill ; and de man vill 
hang himself, as sure as viskey.’ Veil, vat of datl Ish it right for 
me to sell dish man de rope to hang himself, pecause I knows dat 
deie ish anoder, vat vill sell him de rope, if I vill not? If a poor 
toad be killed mit a plunderpush, ish de murderers less guilty, 
pecause dere are twenty of ’em pull de string, vat ish tied to de 
trigger, dan if von pull it alone ? — But de trader say some folk vill 
not preak dere necks mit de rope, dey vill only stretch dere necks, 
and strangle demselves a leetle, dat ish all. ‘ Ve cannot tell who 
vill preak his neck,’ say de trader, ‘ and who vill not; derefore ve 
do not sell de rope to preak de neck of any particular pody.’ Veil, 
suppose dey does n’t. Dere ish a pretty goot crop of trunkards 
every year ; — just apout de same. De rum-seller put de seed in 
de ground ; and, in de right time he thrash out all de grain ; and den 
de overseers pick up de chaff. De trunken paupers are made by 
de traders. Now, ish de man less guilty of de crime, who fire his 
gun into a crowd, and kill somepody, but he knows not who, dan 
de man vat fire and kill von oder man, vat stand all alone? Ish de 
trader less guilty, who sell de rope, mit his eyes shut, or mit his 
eyes open? — Let de trader go. Vat ish de goot of de ugly shtuff? 
De ploughman vant a leetle — dat ish droll enough. Dere vas old 
V''ansittart , vat ploughed de sea, for forty year, and never let a tiop 
come apoard, in his life. De traveller and de vagoner must have a 
leelle. Dat ish more droll yet. Venever de prute trink a leetle 
vater, de man must have a leetle rum. De peast and de man are 
just de same, all but de soul ; de pone, and de muscle, and de plood, 
and de nerve, are just de same ; veil, den, ish it not enough to make 
a burgomaster shplit his sides mit laughter, to see Matt. Kelly, de 
postman, vat ish ever so many stone weight, put half a pint of rtm 
into his stomach, dat he may ride upon de pack of his lame mare, 
vat gets netting but vater? — I pe ready, for von, to sign de pledge. 
It ish a goot leetle anchor, and vill keep many a poor fellow fn>ra 
going on to de preakers ; and ven a man vill make all fast in dish 
vay, de poor vife and de leetle children may shleep in peace, out 
of de reach of de trunken hurricane.” 


FR.rZ HAZELL. 


121 


The old Dutchman sat down in the midst of applause. Though, 
for many years, he had been an inhabitant of the village, and was 
very generally respected and esteemed, no occasion before had 
called forth his mental powers, in a similar manner. He struggled 
hard to excuse himself from the office of president, but the unam- 
mous acclaim of the whole assembly left him no chance of escape. 
It was well known in the village, that Captain Hazell had on 
hand a very considerable stock of Hollands, for domestic use. Two 
of the dram-sellers in Still-Valley, either supposing the old man 
would sell it extremely low, as he had joined the temperance 
society, or desirous of laying a trap for the old Dutchman, paid him 
a visit, early the next morning. What was their astonishment, as 
they entered his premises, to see hina engaged, with the aid of little 
Fritz, in pouring a tributary stream of the choicest Geneva into the 
little creek, in the rear of his dwelling ! They caught the only 
apostrophe whicji he uttbred : “ Tip it a leetle more, my goot poy ; 
vat vould my old friends. Van Scrompfen, Broders, and Company, 
say, to see dere very best turned adrift in dish manner !” — Runlet 
and Stopple, the dram-sellers, were so confounded, at this irresist- 
ible evidence of the old gentleman’s consistency, that they slunk 
away, unperceived, to ruminate, at their leisure, upon such an 
unexpected example of principle, prevailing over interest and appe- 
tite. The story flew over the village, and was very differently 
received, by the friends of peace and good order, on the one hand, 
and the lovers of rum and riot, on the other. The former, to a 
man, were highly gratified by such an evidence of Captain Hazell ’s 
consistency ; and the sacrifice of his personal interest, while it 
increased his individual respectability, was of no little service to the 
cause. On the other hand, Tim Smith circulated a report, and was 
by many supposed to believe it, that old Hazell was deranged ; 
taking it for granted, that no man would throw away a whole quar- 
ter cask of Hollands, in his right mind. The widow Frizzle lifted 
up her hands, when she received the intelligence, and exclaimed, 
“ W hy could he not have made a present of it to poor McFlaggon, 
who has lost his all 1 It would have helped the poor man to set up 
again in his business. Besides, McFlaggon’s wife is Captain 
Jlazell’s only relation, in this, and, for aught I know, in any other 
country.” — “Why, madam,” saiff Dr. Manna, who had tapped 
the old lady twice already for the dropsy, “perhaps you do not 
exactly understand the drift of these temperance folks ; they hope 
to produce an entire abolition of ardent spirit.” — “ Ha, ha, ha,” 
8,aid this jolly widow, “ I reckon it will not be in our time, doctor* 
ha, ha, ha.” — “ I think not, madam,” the doctor replied ; “ ‘ onl> 
roL. I. 11 


122 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


as a medicine,’ however, is a part of the temperance pledge ; and 
a sensible physician will be governed by circumstances, you know. 
N«w, in your own case, Mrs. Frizzle, I do not hesitate to say, 
that I consider a sustaining glass or two, in the course of the day, 
exceedingly palatable.” — “ Oh, Doctor Manna,” she replied, “ you 
always understood my case, from the beginning. I do believe I 
should not live a week, without a little spirit. You know what a 
beautiiul preacher Parson Syllabub is, doctor, and what a delightful 
sermon he gave us, last Sabbath afternoon, about Bonaparte and Lord 
Wellington: well, I can always understand him better, when I 
brighten up my faculties with a little Jamaica. I told the pars( ti so, 
the other day. ‘ Why, Mrs. Frizzle,’ says he, in his pleasant, chatty 
way, — you know, doctor, he is not one of those gloomy minister.s, 
that are always talking about another world, — ‘ vvhy, madam,’ 
says he, ‘ I think I can always preach a little better, after I take a 
comforting glass ; and I am not surprised, 'that you can hear a little 
better, after doing the very same thing.’ That is just what he said, 
doctor; and that is what I call a liberal doctrine.” The doctor 
availed of the first pause, to retire, assuring the old lady, that he 
thought she might go six weeks pretty comfortably, without tapping 
again. 

The cause of temperance made regular progress in the valley, and 
the president, in particular, displayed an uncommon zeal in its 
behalf, tempered with the soundest discretion. In little more than 
a twelvemonth, the number of the society was five hundred and 
forty-three ; and the manifold blessings, which invariably follow in 
the train of this glorious reformation, were already perceptible, in 
every part of the village. 

More than two years had passed away, since the McFillagin mur- 
der. Fritz Hazell, as little Patrick was now universally called, by 
the villagers, was nearly twelve years of age ; and it was a matter 
of common remark, in the village, that a shoot of more promise sel- 
dom came from a stock, so utterly worthless and depraved. But 
there were careful observers of cause and effect, who explained the 
seeming mystery, upon very intelligible pinciples. They remem- 
bered the early days of Patrick McFillagin and Martha Buchanan. 
They were then industrious, temperate, and happy. The poor girl 
gave him all that she possessed, — her humble apportionment of 
worldly goods, and a devoted heart. He had squandered the one, 
and broken the oilier. But, for several years after their maniage, 
their dwelling was the home of a happy family ; and they might still 
have been seated at their quiet fireside, had not the unfortunate hus- 
band, and subsequently the wife herself, contracted that ruinous rel- 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


.23 


'ja icr spirituoas liquor, which turned their home into an hell, whose 
only outlet was the grave. They were naturally amiable, and the 
L’tock, though certainly depraved of late years, was by no means 
originally bad. Little Patrick was the early and the only fruit of 
their marriage. Captain Hazell had placed him at school, and he 
had acquired the reputation of an intelligent and amiable child. Ho 
was strongly attached to his benefactor, and his principal amuse- 
ments were the cultivation of a little garden, at the rear of their 
dwelling ; or, in the long winter evenings, listening to such tales of 
the ocean or the land, as the old Dutchman was abundantly able and 
willing to relate. 

It was upon one of these occasions, when the loud roaring of a 
midwinter tempest perfectly harmonized with the subject in hand, 
that the old man was engaged, in reciting the story of his ship- 
wreck, in the good brigantine, the Haarlem, in the German Ocean ; 
and he was as^ zealous in the narration, as though he had not 
recounted every particular, full twenty times before, to the same 
untiring ears. He had already recited that part of the sad adven- 
ture, in which nine of the crew, who had broken into the spirit room, 
to seek oblivion of all thought and care, sprang at once into the 
yawl, and, instantly capsizing, were hurried, drunk, into the pres- 
ence of Almighty God. “ Poor Captain Wertz, vat I never shall 
forget,” said he, with tears in his eyes, “ he hold on as long he 
could ; de old prig vas on her peam-ends, and ve vas in de main- 
top ; but de sea made a clean preach over us. Poor old Wertz, he 
v£is vat dey call a temperate trinker ; Van Scrompfen, Broders, and 
Company alvays send down a demijohn of de very pest, just afore de 
ship sail, for de captain’s particular. Poor fellow ! he had de rheu- 
matiz, and dat night vas cold as an iceperg. ‘ I must go,’ zaid he. 

— ‘ Hold on, captain,’ zay I ; — dere vas not a rope to lash de poor 
man to de rigging. — ‘ No,’ he cry, ‘ I must go, Hazell.’ — ‘ Hold 
on, captain,’ zay I to him ; ‘ tink of de vife !’ — De poor fellow, he 
groan, but he hold on. — After a leelle, he cry again, ‘Hazell, 
Hazell,’ — 1 vas de first mate den, you know, — ‘ I am going ; dero 
ish gold in de ceiling, remember.’ — ‘ Captain Wertz,’ zay I, ‘ h.dd 
on ; tink of de tree leetle chiltren ; hold on for dere sake, captain ’ — 
‘Oh Hazell,’ he zay, and he hold on a leetle longer; but den come 
anoder great vave. — ‘ Hold on, captain,’ I cries ; — de sea roll by 

— 1 looks up, and poor Wertz was gone!” — Captain Hazell rose 
and took down his pipe ; which was a well-known signal to Fritz, 
that the story was ended ; and the little fellow was about to resume 
his amusing occupation, under the old Dutchman’s superintendence, 
of rigging a pet frigate, which he hoped to launch in the spring, on 


124 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


the waters of the little creek. — “ Put it avay, my leetle poy , fcr co 
nif^hl, and sit in de seat here py me.” — Fritz did as he was bidden 
The old man patted him on the head, and the little fellow looked 
up with a grateful and devoted expression, upon his best eartiily 
friend. 

“ Fritz, my chilt,” said the old man, “ ven you come here, yoti 
zay you vill pe a goot poy, if I vill pe your friend. Very veil ; you 
has peen mit old Hazell more dan two year, and you has kept de 
voord. I vants no petter poy. Ven I had my fever de summer 
afore last, for sich a leetle chilt, you vas a great comfort. Now, 
my poy. I am an old man, dat ish plain enough. After a few more 
seed-time and harvest, old Hazell vill lay town to rise no more, only 
in de great day. — Do not cry, leetle poy. — No pody knows ven it 
vill pe ; and den de great Got vill pe de fader of de faderless. — Vat 
I vants to zay, ish no more nor no less dan dish here : you must set 
ready for de time. You vill not pe a land-1 upper. Ven 1 vas no 
pigG'er dan you ish now, I had peen a voyage to de Isle of France, 
capin-poy of de ship Gropstock, mit old Captain Vanderhausen. 
Come, cheer up, my lad, you shall not go to sea dish shtormy night ; 
but ven de shpring open, may pe you vill like to see a leetle of de 
voorld. Vat you tink of a trip to Holland, ey, my poy? You vill 
see de great city of Amsterdam, and all de grand grafts, vat dey call 
canals ; and de fine church of St. Catharine, and de Stadt liouse, 
and a tousand sights, vat vill make you shtare. I’ll varrant.” — 
Fritz tried to smile ; but even the distant prospect of a separation, 
from his old friend and protector, entirely frustrated his endeavors. 
At length he admitted, that he should like well enough to see all the 
fine sights, if it could he done without leaving home. — “ Ha, ha,” 
said the old man, “ if ve could only pring, over de great pond, de 
Stadt house, and de statue of De Ruyter, and a few of de pig 
churches, de folks vould run a leetle vay to see ’em, no toubt ; but 
you have got to get de pread mit de sweat of de prow, my leetle 
man. Veil, veil, ven de shpring come, ve vill see how it vill pe.” 

Before the winter had worn away, repeated allusions to the subject 
left no doubt in the mind of Fritz, that the old captain was in ear- 
nest ; and, as he was entirely ready to study the wishes and follow 
the counsel of his old fiiend, the little fellow’s mind became gradu- 
ally prepared for a separation. 

The spring came at length ; and, if any doubt of his destiny still 
lingered in the mind of httle Fritz, it was entirely dissipated, when, 
upon the day after the captain returned from a journey to the city, 
he sent for Ma’a.n Twist, the tailoress, and, placing before her some 
cloth and check, which he had brought with him, he addressed her 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


125 


as follov^'s : “ I zay, my goot voman, de poy vill vant hdf' a tozen 
bliirts of de check, jacket and trowsers of de pine, and a coat vat de 
sailors call a pea-jacket, of de shaggy cloth. Come, my poy, and pe 
measured.” Little Fritz obeyed. In a few days, the clothes were 
finished, and Gouge, the joiner, had sent home a small sea-cliest. In 
the pleasure of this new acquisition, Fritz had already blunted, in 
some degree, the sensibility, which the prospect of a separation had 
produced. Five hundred times already he had turned the kej of 
his new chest ; and when, on the Sabbath before his departure, he 
dressed himself for church, in his blue suit, and mounted his black 
riband and new-glazed hat, which shone under the bright sun of a 
May -day morning, like an election-cake, the idea of separation did 
not appear so very terrible, as it had done, some three months 
before. Even a youthful widow will sometimes derive a small 
measure of melancholy consolation from the becoming set and 
fashion of her weeds. 

Sabbath evening, the last, which the old man and little Fritz 
were to pass together, before his departure, was very profitably 
spent in giving him good counsel for his future way. — “ Dere 
ish no von, so young as you,” said the old man, “ vat put his 
name to de temperance pook ; I hope dere ish no von, ever so 
old, vat keep de pledge petter. Ven you gets to Amsterdam, pe 
sure to take de letter, vat I put in de chest, to Van Scrompfen, 
Broders, and Company, de first ting, as you gets ashore. Any 
podies vill show you de varehouse, ven you shows dem de letter. 
Mind and take off your hat, my poy, so soon, vat you gets in de 
counting-room. Dere ish no fear put dey vill find you plenty of 
voyages. Dey vill make a man of you, Fritz, as dere faders afore 
’em made a man of me. Van Scrompfen is de portly gentleman, 
mit de pig vig. All de broders vear de vigs, put Van Scrompfen 
vear de piggest vig of ’em all. Don’t pe fear’d, if he look at you 
pretty sharp ; dat ish his vay. — Ven your fader and moder vere 
taken avay, dere vas a man, whom I never did see afore nor since, 
vat put in my hand two tollars, to pe laid out for you, my chilt, as 
I might tink for your goot. He vas a kind-hearted sort of a pody , 
and he zay he vould come to see how you get on, put he never did. 
Now I have laid out de money, in de pest vay I know how, for your 
goot. ” So saying, he took from a drawer a new Bible, firmly bound, 
and with a pair of strong clasps. In the first page, the old man had 
written with his own hand, “ Fritz liazell. The gift of an unknown 
friend.” — “ Dere,” said he, “shtick to dat goot pook, and de Got 
of de faderless vill never forsake you, my poy. — Ven I vas eighteen 
year old, I vas first mate of a fine ship. In five or six year, 1 

VOL. I. 11 * 


J26 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


hope to see you come home de mate of a vessel of four hunder ton. 
Till dat time, I vants you to sail in de employ of Van Scrompfen, 
Broders, and Company. You vill write me, venever you gets a 
goot chance. Now, my chilt, ve must pe up mit de lark; let us 
say de prayer, and go to ped.” 

The next morning, early, they proceeded for the city. They 
arrived at the very last hour; the Triton’s topsails were already 
loosened to the wind, and the little fellow was scarcely put on board, 
before her anchor was up, and she was standing down the harbor. 
The old man gave him a hearty shake by the hand. Neither trusted 
himself to utter a syllable to the other. Thus they parted; — old 
Flazell to return to his solitary home; — Fritz to seek his fortune 
upon the wilderness of waters. 

Old Hazell confessed, upon his return to the village, “ dat it vas 
hard to part mit so goot a leetle poy.” He had undoubtedly sacri- 
ficed his personal feelings to the boy’s welfare and worldly pros- 
perity. 

On his return, the old gentleman devoted himself, with untiring 
diligence, to the advancement of the temperance reform. He 
succeeded in his efforts to procure a vote of the town, at the annual 
meeting, requesting the selectmen not to approbate any application 
for license to sell ardent spirit. The rum-drinking and rum-selling 
party poured upon his head the whole torrent of their impotent 
wrath, in their customary manner upon such occasions, by electing 
him a hogreeve. The old Dutchman was a practical philosopher 
He perfectly understood, that an independent citizen, who opposes 
the will and pleasure of those, who are viciously inclined, must 
expect their opposition, while he receives the approbation of the 
wise and good. When he was told of his election, he calmly 
remarked, “ Very veil, dat ish all right; you pring me every man, 
vat vote to make old Hazell de hogreeve ; and I vill show you all 
de men, vat trinks rum, and all de men, vat makes it, and sells it ; 
dat ish all. I am too pusy mit de two-legged prutes, vat gets trunk 
and vallows in de mire, to tink of dem, vat goes on four.” During 
the discussion at the town-meeting. Dr. Manna, upon the solicita 
tiin of a large proportion of his patients, among the venders and 
partakers, offered a few well-balanced remarks, in which he ad 
mitted, that temperance was good thing , but that we should 
be cautious and discreet. He agreed, that a drunkard was a public 
nuisance ; but he thought a little, now and then, not only harmless, 
but beneficial to laboring men and others. He begged leave to say, 
that ^he Reverend Mr. Syllabub, who could not attend the meeting, 
as he was engaged at the funeral of farmer Drowthy, who had lately 


FRITZ HAZELk 


127 


died of the liver-complaint, had authorized him to express his opin- 
ion, that the friends of temperance were “ going too fast and too 
far.'' — Colonel Noman, who, in a fit of intoxication, a few weeks 
before, had knocked out his wife’s front teeth, with a leg of mutton, 
rose and seconded the motion. — The moderator informed him, that 
tlie motion had been seconded already, by a friend of temperance. — 
“ Well, then,” said Colonel Noman, “I don’t want to second no 
such thing ; I meant to say I approved what the doctor said ; and 1 
don’t doubt, sir, there’s nine out of ten, of the gentlemen present, 
what ’s of my mind. No true American, what ’s got the giniwine 
spirit in him, will ever submit to have his liberties taken aAvay, in 
this here manner.” — Lawyer Grippit made a short speech, admir- 
ably adapted to offend neither party. 

A fter a short pause. Captain Hazell rose ; and the remembrance 
ot his former success, when the temperance society was first organ- 
ized, caused him to be greeted with loud applause. — “ Mr. Moder- 
ator,” said the old man, “ it ish very true I pe no toctor, nor 
rninishter, nor colonel, nor lawyer ; put I pe an old man, vat has 
live and look apout in dish voorld of care and trouple, for many year.' 
Now, in de firsht place, I pe no toctor. My goot friend here, de 
toctor, he say dat artent shpirit pe peneficial to laporing men and 
oders. Now, I say I pe no toctor, put I has got seventy-five pretty 
goot toctor in my pocket.” Here the captain pulled out a printed 
paper, and continued as follows : — “I has just come from de city, 
vere I has peen to ship for Amsterdam de leetle poy, vat I took 
home, after de McFillagin murter. Ven I vas in de city, a friend 
of de goot cause gives me dish paper.” He then read the certificate 
of seventy-five physicians in the city of Boston, that ardent spirits 
are never necessary for persons in health, and often the cause of 
disease and death. “Veil, den,” continued the captain, “ here ish 
our goot friend von vay, and de seventy-five de toder vay. Who 
shall tecide ven de toctors dishagree?” — Dr. Manna examined the 
paper, and made a labored and unintelligible explanation. — The 
captain resumed : “ Mit such a poor old head as mine, I cannot tell 
vat de toctor mean. He goes mit de seventy-five, or he goes toder 
vay ; he can say vich. For von, if I goes py de toctors, I must go 
mit de seventy-five, and not mit von toctor, vat ish all alone. — 1 
say I pe no rninishter ; now, de toctor say dat de Reverend Parson 
Shillipup pe of de opinion dat ve go too fast and too far. Vat ish he 
fear'd apout? Can ve go too fast and too far to save our fellow- 
creatures from de untimely grave, in dish voorld, and de judgment 
in de toder ? How many more vifes and leetle chiltren shall pe made 
de town paupers, pefore ve pegin again to put a shtop to de rum- 


128 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


tradol De great reform ish de cause of Got, and vill pe likely to 
suffer apout as much, from a leetle too much zeal, as de first-rate 
man-of-war from a leetle too much vind in de topsail. — 1 say, 1 pe 
no colonel, and I pe pretty sure I has none of de shpirit in me ; put 
vat ish all de talk apout taking avay de liperties of de people? Ve 
vants to take avay de chains and fetters of shame. Ye vants to take 
avay none of your liperties, put dese, vich I vill name : de liperly of 
getting trunk ; de liperty of apusing and murtering your vifes and 
de chiltren ; de liperty of shpending your time like de putterfly, and 
ycur money like de protigal ; de liperty of coming upon de town for 
support ; dese here and a few oders are de liperties, vat ve vants tc 
take avay. — 1 say I pe no lawyer ; if I vas, I vould make a speech, 
vich should pe contrived like de vale-boat, vat vill row just as veil, 
d(! von vay, as de toder.” 

Mr. Hazell sat down amidst loud peals of applause, and his motion 
was sustained by a vole of three to one. 

After an uncommonly short and prosperous passage, the Triton 
arrived at Amsterdam ; and, by the ship Jason, which left that port, 
three days after the Triton’s arrival. Captain Hazell received the 
following letter ; — 

Amsterdam^ June 4, 18 — . 

Honored Father : 

You always told me to call you father, and I hope I shall always 
behave like a dutiful child. We had a very pleasant voyage, and 1 
handed your letter to Mr. Van Scrompfen, whom I knew directly by 
your description. I thought he looked proper cross, and he told me 
to wait. He went out and kept me waiting several hours. On his 
return, he seemed very different. He looked very good-natured, ind 
spoke very kindly. He promised to find me a good chance, and I am 
to sail to-morrow, in the ship Jahn Schmidt, for Sumatra. He 
inquired about your health several times ; and asked how you were 
pleased with the last gin, which they sent you. At first, I was aft aid 
to tell him the truth ; but I remembered what you had often said to me, 
and I told him of the temperance reform in America, and that you teas 
president of the society, and felt obliged to throw the gin away. The 
old gentleman and all the brothers fell to laughing at a great rate. 
When it was over, the old gentleman went to a little glass and fixed 
his wig, and seemed, to look as if he thought he had laughed more 
than he ought to. He told me very kindly to he a good lad, and he 
would look after my welfare. — Many years ivill pass, I am afraid, 
before I shall get to he mate of a ship. The first officer of the 
Triton was very kind to me ; and, seeing that I was desirous of 
'snowing something of navigation, he took a great deal of pains la 


FRITZ HAZELL 


129 


teach me He mas a religious man ; the captain^ I am afraid, was 
not. Now, dear father, 1 must leave off. It ivill be many years 
before I shall see you again; but 1 shall never get into my hammock, 
without graying for you ; and I trust God will hear the prayers of 
an orphan boy. 

Your grateful son, 

FRITZ HAZELL. 

Notwithstanding the captain had taken great care, that Fritz 
should have all the advantages of the village school, and was aware 
that he had the reputation of an uncommonly diligent and intelligent 
pupil, he was surprised at so well-written a letter. He showed it 
round the village, with no ordinary feeling of pleasure and pride ; 
and he brought it to bear upon the great cause, in which he was 
engaged. “ Dish leetle fellow,” he would say, “ ish dat very piand, 
vat I shnatch from de puming.” 

The change 'of Van Scrompfen’s manner to little Fritz, after 
returning to the counting-room, may be easily explained. Captain 
Hazell had earnestly requested his old friend and patron, to take 
Fritz under his protection ; and the wary Dutchman, resolving to 
act on prudent ground, was willing first to know more of him, at 
head-quarters. In twenty minutes from the time, when he left his 
warehouse, Van Scrompfen was on the quarter-deck of the Triton. 
“Captain,” said the old gentleman, “you haves a capin-poy, vat 
ish named Fritz Hazell.” — “ Ay, ay, sir,” said the captain, “ for 
the outward passage only, and I am happy to say it.” — “ Vy, 
really,” said the old Dutchman, “ vat ish de matter mit de lad ?” — 
“ Why, as to that,” replied the captain, “ I can only say, he’s a 
disagreeable little whelp, and I’ve taken a distaste to him, that’s 
all. He ’s a whining, praying, puritanical, cold-water dog ; and if 
I ’d suffered it, he ’d have done nothing but read, all the way from 
Boston light, till we got to Amsterdam.” — “ A smart lad to work, 
too. Captain Allen,” said Mr. Packard, the first mate, in a respect- 
ful manner. — “Why, that’s true,” said the captain; “but we 
can’t h'elp our tastes ; I dislike the chap’s ways, and there ’s an end 
on’t.” — “You say de poy love to read, — vat doe.s he read?” 
inquired Van Scrompfen. — “It’s some cold-water book, I sup- 
pose,” answered Captain Allen, laughing ; “ he ’s at it, from morn- 
ing to night ; but there is Mr. Packard, who thinks better of the 
boy, than I do: perhaps you may as well talk with him.” — Mr. 
Packard, who had been below, for a moment, was now coming aft, 
from the forecastle, with a volume in his hand; and advancing to 
Van Scrompfen, “ This 's the boy’s book,” said he. — Tlie old 
Dutchman put on his spectacles ; and opening the title-page, “ Vy,’ 


130 


FRITZ MAXELL. 


ne exclaimed, “it ish de pest pook, in de voorld.” — iVIr. Packard 
requested to know the object of the g-entler.ian’s inquiries ; and was 
, frankly told, thai the boy came highly recommended from an old 
friend in New England, and that he desired to ascertain how far the 
recommendation would be confirmed by the captain of the ship. 
“ Well, then, sir,” said Mr. Packard, “ if that is your object, the 
lad shall have justice from me : — He is one of the best lads I ever 
knew. Captain Allen, who is a first-rate seaman, of the old sort, 
would like the boy better, if he could get him to curse and swear a 
little, and take his grog. The boy is not as strong, as some boys. 
He was very sea-sick, for the first ten days ; and the captain thought 
he pretended to be sicker than he was, and made him scrape the 
deck, and thrashed him about rather roughly. He bore it as well 
as he could. He cried, but did not utter a word of complaint. I 
took the liberty to tell Captain Allen, that I thought the boy did his 
best ; and he then told him to turn in. The next day, when he was 
on deck, the captain seemed to feel, that he had not made allowances 
enough for his youth and inexperience ; and, calling him aft, asked 
him how he felt, and offered him the remainder of his grog in the 
tumbler ; the boy thanked him for his kindness, but said he had 
rather not take it. This the captain mistook for obstinacy; and, 
calling him a sulky puppy, he threw the liquor in his face, and 
ordered him forward. He has never liked the boy since. — I asked 
the lad, afterward, why he refused the captain’s grog; and he told 
me he had signed the pledge of the temperance society. This made 
me feel more kindly to him, for I am a cold-water man myself. I 
know nothing against the boy, unless it is a sin in him to drink no 
spirit, say his prayers, and do his duty.” — “ Very goot,” said the 
Holland merchant ; and, giving Mr. Packard a hearty shake of the 
hand, he made his way directly back to the counting-room, with 
such sentiments towards Fritz Hazell, as were exhibited in that 
change of manner, to which we have already referred. 

Days, weeks, months, and years had passed, and were passing 
a\A'ay, and Fritz Hazell had not yet compassed the object of his 
wishes ; it was still unattained. He seldom laid down in his hammock 
without saying to himself, “ When shall I realize the expectation of 
n; y best earthly friend, and be justified in presenting myself before 
h m again 1 When shall 1 be even the second or third mate of a ship 
of four hundred tons!” Many letters were despatched to his friend 
and ]>atron ; and, not unfrequently, he received replies from Still- 
Valley, assuring him of the old gentleman’s continued interest, and 
of the great pleasure he enjoyed in obtaining the most favorable 
accounts of him., from Van Scrompfen, Brothers, and Company 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


131 


The old captain concluded almost every letter wnth “ an old man’s 
voord, vat has sailed almost to de land’s end in dish life, dat de 
great pook ish de pest power-ancl or in dish here voorld and in de 
todcr.” 

Not only his elders, but his superiors, had, upon several occa- 
sions, cheerfully received instruction, in the science of navigation, 
from Fritz Hazell. Nothing but his youth presented any obstacle 
to his advancement. 

On the 9th of April, 18 — , as the Antwerp, an Indiaman of twelve 
hundred tons, was within four days’ sail of Canton, with someth ng 
more than a topsail breeze, the shout of “A man overboard !” 
stirred the drowsiest spirit into vigorous action. As soon as possi- 
ble, but with the greatest difficulty, the ship was hove to. Before a 
boat could be gotten out, she had run nearly two miles from the poor 
fellow. Every exertion was made for his preservation, but in vain. 

— He, who„a moment before, was in the midst of life, was in death. 

— The old ship gave her foresail once more to the wind ; the boat- 
swain’s song was at an end ; and a natural solemnity prevailed. All 
hands having been piped upon deck, the missing man was discov- 
ered to be Erick Pederson, third mate of the ship. — The next 
morning, the captain sent for Fritz Hazell to come aft. — “ What 
is your age?” said Captain De Witt. — “Seventeen, last July, 
sir,” was the reply. — “ Rather young, to be sure,” said the cap- 
tain ; “ you are third mate of the Antwerp, Mr. Hazell ; please to 
go to to your duty, sir.” — Fritz colored to the very top of his 
forehead, made his bow, and obeyed. It may suffice to say, that, in 
his department, nothing was done, but in due time and proper order 
He gave entire satisfaction to old Captain De Witt, who was note 
riously difficult to please; and his continuance in office, on the 
return- voyage, was sufficient evidence, that his appointment had as 
much to do with his merits, as with the necessity of the case. 

The faithful discharge of his duty, demanded no ordinary sacrifice 
of personal comfort. Fritz Hazell was naturally of an anxious tem- 
perament, painfully scrupulous in the execution of his trust ; and, 
though free from all bodily disease, he had not that measure of 
strength, and that power of enduring fatigue, which are indispensa- 
ble to every child of the ocean. His return- voyage, in the Antwerp, 
from CanV''*i to Amsterdam, and that, which he shortly after made 
from Amsterdam to New York, were the last, which he ever per- 
formed. 

During his passage to Canton, in the Antwerp, an inciden 
occurred, of sufficient interest to be incorporated with this brief 
history of Fritz Hazell's career. There was, on board the Antwerp 


132 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


a sailor, whose name was James or Thomas Rodney, and 1 have 
forg-otten which : he shipped, as a first-rate seaman, and he certainly 
deserved the name. He was even a good navigator, and had been 
first mate of two or three ships ; but he had been driven back upon 
the forecastle, by that power, which has overthrown its millions — 
the power of strong drink. Free-drinking and free-thinking are fri - 
quently fellow-travellers, upon the railroad to ruin. Rodney w’as 
an intemperate man, and a miserable infidel. Solitude has been 
said to lose a portion of its interest, unless we have one pleasant 
companion, at least, with .vnom we can discourse upon its charms. 
The same thing may be affirmed of infidelity. The pious and devout 
believer is happy, in his own silent convictions. The infidel and 
the atheist are not happy in theirs. They derive no pleasure from 
their thoughts, but only from giving them utterance. Rodney was 
a man of good natural powers ; he was not an idiot, and therefore he 
was not an atheist ; but his mind was untaught and untutored. He 
was an infidel ; and, in conformity with the principle we have indi- 
cated, he was constantly exhibiting his frail and fantastical concep- 
tions, or uttering ludicrous and irreverent quotations from Scripture. 
He very soon conceived a dislike of Fritz Hazell ; for, though he 
was the youngest of the ship’s company, Rodney found it impossi- 
ble to excite a smile upon Hazell’s features ; while the majority of 
the sailors were roaring with laughter, at his jeers, upon the subject 
of the Christian religion. Rodney nevertheless had a high respect 
for nautical knowledge ; and Fritz rose in his esteem, by setting 
him right, in a good-natured way, when he had fallen into an error, 
while making some observations, respecting the azimuth com- 
pass. From that moment, Rodney was less disposed to trouble him 
with his infidel doctrines ; and, while throwing out his taunts, in the 
hearing of others, he was less inclined to continue them, whenevei 
“ that boy,” as he used to call Hazell, for the first month of the 
voyage, became one of the group upon the forecastle. Fritz Hazell 
w^as n toriously a religious young man. After the regular services 
of the ship, on the Sabbath day, he was in the habit of resorting to 
the “ pest pook in de voorld,” as Van Scrompfen called it. He was 
a good reader, and generally collected a little auditory of eight or 
ten of the ship’s company. “ Give us another chapter, Hazell,” 
was not an uncommon exclamation, from some honest tar, when the 
book tvas about to be closed for the night. 

It has been remarked, by a keen observer of the human heart, 
that we are often more apt to indulge our hatred, tow'ards thoso 
whom we have injured, than towards those who have injured ns 
We very naturally dislike the continued exhibition, before our eyes. 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


133 


of one, who eternally revives the recollection of our own injustice. 
We are irritated by his very presence, and even by the sound of his 
name ; and our unconsecrated feelings are apt to break forth, in tlie 
form of additional injury and insult. Rodney, who had taken a dis- 
like to Hazell, for the reason we have stated, had given vent to his 
displeasure, from day to day, with an increasing severity of manner, 
for the first month of the passage ; the very consciousness of the 
groundless character of his aversion, towards this younger brothei, 
in itself supplied an abundant source of irritation. Upon one occa- 
sion, the boatswain remarked, that he believed the devil had got into 
tlie fore topsail, for it had set illy ever since the ship sailed. — 
“ Perhaps,” said Rodney, putting a quid of tobacco into his mouth, 
and looking sarcastically at Hazell, “ perhaps somebody can give us 
a lift with a spare prayer or two, to shake the old gentleman out.” 
— All eyes were turned upon the young sailor, w'ho had been 
already the patient subject of several similar jeers, through the day. 
At that moment, Rodney, who was splicing a rope, lost his jack- 
knife overboard, and uttered an exclamation, which we do not think 
proper to repeat; observing, with an air of vexation, that he had 
always been an unlucky dog from his birth. — “ Mr. Rodney,” said 
Fritz Hazell, with an expression, in which manliness and perfect 
good-nature were happily blended, “ here is a knife ; I have another 
in my chest ; and, if you will accept this, it is at your service.” — 
“ Thank you,” said Rodney, as he accepted the peace-oficring of 
an innocent offender. Rodney finished the splice in silence ; and, 
when it was done, he handed back the knife ; but Fritz requested 
him to keep it, with such an air of sincerity and hearty good-will, 
that he put it in his pocket. It w’as upon the same day that Fritz 
gained yet further upon Rodney’s confidence, by giving him that 
evidence of his knowledge upon a nautical point, to which we have 
adverted. 

That very evening, Rodney approached the young sailor, as he was 
standing alone upon the forecastle ; and, after a short pause, accosted 
him, as follows : — “ Hazell, if I ’m a little free, now and then, v/ith 
my red rag, I hope you won't think I ’ve a bad heart. Rodney m as 
always an unlucky dog from his birth ; but his bark is a good deal 
vi orse than his bite. If I ’ve hurt your feelings, aboard the Ant- 
werp, my young friend, I ’m sorry for it.” — “ Mr. Rodney,” said 
Fritz, giving l.im his hand, “ it ’s very kind in you to say this; 1 
o.vn, I have been pained, whenever you have spoken lightly of a 
religion, which I consider sacred ; aud which I should respect the 
ess, if it did not teach me to forget and forgive.” — “ Ah, Hazell,” 
exclaimed Rodney, “ I don’t know tliat you ’ll credit it, after all you 

VOL. I. 12 


134 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


have heard me say, at different times ; but I ’ve often declared, and 
I say so now, I would give a cargo of doubloons, if I had tnem, to 
believe, as you and some other folks believe ; and to be as happy as 
you and they appear to be.” — “lam rejoiced to hear you say this, 
Mr. Rodney,” said Hazell ; “ we are almost strangers, but I can 
not help feeling a decided interest in your welfare. You surely 
believe there is a God?” — “Ido,” Rodney replied. — “And do 
you not believe in the doctrines of the revelation?” inquired Hazell. 
“ I wish I could,” said the other. — “You believe,” rejoined Ha- 
zell, “ that God is an object of worship and of prayer?” — “ Yes, 
I do,” answered Rodney, with evident embarrassment ; “but how 
hard it is to pray!” — “Do try, Mr. Rodney,” said Fritz, taking 
him eagerly by the hand ; “ excuse the earnestness of one so much 
younger than yourself. God is more than willing to hear you. 
When we get into our hammocks, to-night, let us both pray, that 
he will forgive our sins, and that he will help your unbelief.” — 
Rodney was evidently affected by the interest, which Hazell obvi- 
ously felt on his account. — He hastily brushed the tear from bis 
eye, when the boatswain’s whistle called them to their respective 
duties, and put an end to their extraordinary interview. 

The following day, Rodney was so much more grave, in his 
deportment, than usual, that his messmates, who missed their daily 
allowance of merriment, began to run him upon his remarkable 
solemnity. That very night, Rodney and Hazell were destined, in 
the routine of duty, to be on deck together, for the morning, or, as 
the landsmen would call it, the midnight watch. It was a splendid 
night ; and, under the light of the broad, midway moon, the Ant- 
werp, like a vast leviathan, seemed to be taking her pastime, in the 
great wilderness of waves. She was sw'eeping forward, at the rate 
of ten knots an hour ; and the silence of midnight was interrupted 
only by the roar of the parting waters. — “Hazell,” said Rodney, 
as soon as they were alone, “ I am a sad dog. I did try ; but it is 
easier to hand, reef and steer, of a stormy night, than to say one’s 
prayers.” — “I prayed for you,” said Hazell, “from the bottom 
of my heart, that you might be a happier man, and be brought to 
believe the cheering truths of the gospel.” — “But how can any 
man believe what he does not know?” exclaimed Rodney with 
great earnestness of manner. — “ Do you not believe that there is 
such a place as London?” said Hazell. — “To be sure,” was the 
reply ; “ for I have seen it with my own eyes.” — “ Have you ever 
seen Pekin?” Hazell inquired. — “ I never have,” answered Rod- 
ney. — “ But you believe there is such a place ?” — “ To be sure,” 
was the reply. — “Now, Mr. Rodney,” said Fritz in a quiet and 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


135 


modest wny, “ in this very instance, you m ist perceive, tliat you 
firmly and fully believe lhat which you canuol. know. Faith and 
knowledge are very different things. 1'he 13il)le itself teaches us, that 
faith is ‘ the evidence of things not seen.’ You and 1, Mr. Rodney, 
went to sea, long before we had studied navigation. On our first 
voyages, we surely believed., lhat we were on the way to our ports 
of destination. But, when we were out of sight of land, we were 
entirely ignorant what course to steer ; — we knew not how to take 
an observation ; — yet we believed we were going right, though we 
knew nothing about it. We put our faith, our entire confidence in 
the captain of the ship ; but we refuse to go an inch with the Al- 
mighty, without a sign. Suppose, Mr. Rodney, that every man, 
aboard the Antwerp, who is as ignorant, as we both were once, 
should go aft to Captain De Witt, to-morrow, and tell him, lhat he 
did not believe he was going to Canton, because he did not know it ! 
What would h<3 think of them? And what must God think of us? 
How humble must He our notions of Him., the Supreme Being, if 
we suppose his ways to be so much upon a level with our own, lhat 
we can understand them all!” — A long pause ensued. — “ Ha- 
zell,” said Rodney, “ for your years, you are an excellent seaman ; 
but I ’ll tell you what, you ’d make a better minister. Now, I con- 
fess, I never thought so much upon the subject before, in my whole 
life. I never read the Bible, with any attention. My father was a 
good man, and not only read his Bible, but gave his substance to 
the poor, and to missionaries ; and left his children little or nothing. 
His friends used to tell him, that he ought to be more attentive to 
his property ; but the old gentleman always quoted a text of Scrip- 
ture, and it is almost the only one than I can remember, — '"Cast 
Ihy bread upon the ivaters, for thou shall find it after many days.' 
For myself, I have never cared for money. I have given away my 
wages to those, who seemed to need them more than I ; and here 1 
am, a poor, unlucky dog, as I always have been.” — “Mr. Rod- 
ney,” said Fritz, “ 1 have a Bible at your service ; and, if you will 
give me leave, I will mark such chapters, as I think will be usel’ul 
to a person, feeling as you do, i nvards God and world.” — 
Rodney acquiesced in the proposal. — After pacing the deck to- 
gether, for some lime, in perfect silence, “ Mr. Rodney,” said Hazell, 
“ I think you will not be offended with. me for saying, that 1 believe 
the Bible to be the word of God not more surely, than I believe, 
tliat you would be a happier man, and likely sooner to become a 
religious one, if you would leave off spirit.” — Rodney made no 
reply, for several seconds. At length, he exclaimed, clasping his 
haiids together, “ Hazell, it has been my curse for nearly twenty 


136 


FRITZ 


years. I know it well. I have been trying, for twelve years, to 
lessen the quantity, but I have never been able to succeed. If it 
had not been for this bewitching and bewildering poison, instead 
of being here upon the forecastle, I should now be sleeping in my 
cabin, the captain of an Indiaman.” — This he uttered with the 
deepest emotion. — “ Put your trust in God’s goodness and mercy, 
Mr. Rodney,” said Fritz Hazell, with great earnestness “read his 
promises with a willing heart ; try to believe, and pray, lliat you 
may be enabled to believe ; lay the burthen of your sins, at the foot 
of the cross ; and, first of all, give up that habit, I entreat you, 
which is at war with all vital religion — the habit of drinking. You 
say you have been trying twelve years, in vain, to lessen your daily 
allowance. If the ship had sprung a leak, and there were six feet 
of water in the hold, would you pump out three, and let her fill 
again, or pump her dry, and stop the leak once for all, Mr. Rodney ? 
If an enemy of superior force were bearing down, while you were 
at anchor, would you cut your cable a little, or cut it off?. Depend 
upon it, Mr. Rodney, there is no security, but in the whole armor 
of a cold-water man. He, who leaves himself the liberty of taking 
a little, now and then, leaves the nest egg of destruction.” — This 
conversation had left a deep impression on the mind of Rodney. 
His heart was naturally generous and frank ; and he took the earli- 
est occasion, the following day, to do abundant justice to the char- 
acter of Fritz, and to express his regret for having said anything 
to his disparagement. Fritz, on his part, was not backward, in 
performing his promise of the preceding evening ; and it soon 
became a source, though of daily diminishing, surprise to the ship’s 
company, to see Rodney, the scoffer, spending a part of his leisure, 
day after day, sitting between decks upon his chest, and perusing 
the volume of eternal life. 

It would be a heavy tax upon the reader’s patience, to lay before 
him a minute account of the many interesting conferences, between 
Rodney and Hazell, which led, under the blessing of Heaven, to 
the entire reformation of an unh^^ ppy man. Hazell had drawn up 
an agreem''..t, in the earlier pa c of the voyage, by which nineteen 
)f the ship's company pledged themselves to abstain entirely from 
ardent spirit. It was with a light heart, and a quick step, that he 
went aft to inform the captain’s clerk, that Rodney requested liim to 
take notice, that he would draw his grog no longer from that date. 

Ten years have gone by, since the Antwerp crossed the ocean for 
Canton ; and the character of Captain Rodney, for that is his present 
title, has become thoroughly established, as a devout and penitei t 
Christian and an uncompromising cold-water man 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


137 


About a week before the ship’s arrival in Canton, when Frits 
JIazell, upon a Sabbath evening-, had finished reading two or three 
chapters in the Bible, to a far more numerous groap, than had 
gathered round him, upon such occasions, at the beginning of the 
voyage, a conversation arose, among the crew, upon the evils of 
intemperance. Several related such examples of crime and misery, 
as had come to their knowledge ; making together an awful aggre- 
gate of human wretchedness and depravity, by sea and land. “ My 
friends,” said Rodney, after listening to the tales of others, “ I have 
been an eye-witness to the fatal effects of intemperance, myself. 1 
was born in New England, and have some connections there sti.l. 
About ten years ago, I was travelling on foot, through a town Li 
Massachusetts, and hearing a cry of murder, I hurried to the spot. 
The sound cameTrom a small dwelling. Receiving no answer at 
the door, it was burst open, and I saw, upon the floor, a man, wel- 
tering in his blood, and his wife with her throat cut from ear to ear, 
lying at his side. They had been drinking, and the man was not 
quite dead, though he died, while I was there.” — “ Mr. Rodney,” 
said Fritz Hazell, with evident agitation, “ what was the name of that 
town?” — “ I really cannot remember ; I was never in it before,” 
he replied. — “Did anyone go with you, to the house of these 
unhappy people?” — “Yes,” replied Rodney, “ there was an old 
man, a foreigner, I think, who went with me.” — “Was there a 
child in the house?” — “ There was a little boy ; and I never shall 
forget his look of terror, when he clung to the old man, and begged 
him not to let his father kill him.” — “Did you not give some 
money to that old man, for the boy’s use?” — “ I now recollect I 
did : I gave him a two-(follar bill ; and I remember it more perfectly, 
because it was the last farthing I had. I had been up the country, 
to see my friends, before I went to sea again. But how could you 
know all these particulars?” — Fritz sat, for a few seconds, with 
his hands before his features. — The surrounding group looked on, 
in silent astonishment. — At length he uncovered his face, which 
was bathed in tears, and exclaimed, “ How mysterious and how 
wise are the dealings of God! — lam that orphan boy. — That 
excellent old man, to whom you gave your bounty, laid it out in the 
purchase of this book ; and wrote, as you here see, ‘ The gift of an 
unknoivn friend.' In this very book, you have learned, I trust, a 
lesson of eternal wisdom.” Fritz opened the volume to the eleventh 
chapter of Ecclesiastes, and pointed to the first verse. Rodney read 
the passage aloud: — “Cast thy bread upon the waters, for 

THOU SHALT FIND IT AFTER MANY D\YS.” “ HoW little yOU 

thought,” said Fritz Hazell, “ when you bestowed your two doliar» 
VOL. I. 12 * 


138 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


opon an orphan boy, that you were purchasing the bread of etema* 
life!” — The effect produced by this explanation was of the most 
solemn and impressive character. — There was not a dry eye upon 
the forecastle. 

When it was intimated to Fritz, that he would be retained in the 
capacity of third mate, for the homeward voyage, he went to Captain 
De Witt, and earnestly reconunended Rodney, as better qualified ; 
but the captain would not change his arrangement. 

After an unusually short and prosperous passage, the Antwerp 
arrived in safety at Amsterdam ; and Fritz had the pleasure of 
receiving letters from old Captain Hazell ; in which he stated, among 
other matters, that his health was not quite as good, as it used to 
be ; and expressed an earnest desire of seeing Fritz once more at 
hiDHie. This wish, entirely corresponding with the views and feel- 
ings of the young sailor ; upon the recommendation of Captain De 
Witt, he readily obtained the situation of first mate of the brig The- 
tis, bound to Philadelphia. Before his departure, he represented 
the case of poor Rodney so strongly to Captain De WitJ, and even 
to Van Scrompfen himself, that both of them expressed their willing- 
ness to advance his interest, should he be able to keep his resolution. 
Rodney proved faithful to his pledge ; and De Witt and V an Scromp- 
fen were not unmindful of their promise. 

In summing up the account to the period of Fritz Hazell ’s final 
departure from Amsterdam, it must be confessed, there was an item, 
of painful interest, not to be overlooked. The fatigue of a sea-life, 
and the weight of that responsibility, which fell, in the present 
instance, upon an anxious spirit, were obviously impairing his 
health. Van Scrompfen shook his head, when Captain De Witt 
was commending the young man’s behavior; and observed, “ De 
shword ish too sharp for de shcappord. I pe feared de sea-life vill 
never do.” 

Van Scrompfen was perfectly right. Upon the arrival of the 
Thetis in Philadelphia, after a boisterous passage, Fritz Hazell quit- 
ted her, in a feeble state of health. He now took his passage for 
New England, by land ; and, before his journey was half finished, he 
had become already sensible of an obvious improvement in his spirits. 
A relief from his late care and responsibility, and the prospect of 
revisiting the scenes of his youth, and his old friend and protector, 
were productive of the happiest effects. 

The stage-coach , at length, ascended the Holden Hills ; and, after 
an absence of nearly six years, Fritz Hazell beheld the smoke, ascend- 
ing from the house-tops of his native valley, with an emotion, easily 
understood, by those, whi have caught the first view of the village 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


139 


spire, after an absence of years ; and utterly unintelligible to those, 
who liave not. The vehicle rolled so rapidly along, that it had 
passed a few rods beyond the dwelling of old Hazell, before the 
driver had stopped his horses. Fritz was out, in an instant; and, 
leaving his sea-chest by the road-side, he turned back to the cottage. 

— The window-shutters were closed. — He tried the door ; — it was 
fastened; and, raising his eyes, he read, upon a small card, “77»s 
house to be let; inquire of Mrs. Sukey McFlaggon, Administratrix^ 
or Christopher Grippit, her attorney.’’' — The tale w^as summarily 
told. — His old patron was dead. — He returned to the place, where 
his chest had been deposited. He sat dowm upon it; and, for a 
moment, applied his handkerchief to his eyes. — “ Poor old man !” 
said he, “perhaps he died alone; I wish I could have been with 
him !” 

Attracted by^he unusual circumstance of a passenger and his 
luggage, left at the road-side, and especially by his unsuccessful 
attempts to get admittance at the empty cottage ; a tall old man, 
w'ith his sleeves rolled up, and a leathern apron about his waist, 
came forth from a shoe-maker’s shop ; and, after observing the 
stranger for an instant, stepped over towards him. — It was old 
Enoch Foster, the shoe-maker. Fritz recollected him immediately. 

— “ You don’t remember me,” said the young sailor, extending his 
hand. — “ Yes, I do, now that you speak,” said old Enoch, shaking 
him heartily by the hand ; “I had a thought it must be you, when 
I saw you go to the house. The old gentleman has gone. He 
talked a great deal about you, in his last sickness. Whenever he 
got one of your letters, he used to come over and read it to us, with 
a great deal of pleasure. Come, let me help you to take your chest 
over to our house. My wife will be rejoiced to see you.” Fritz 
accepted the offer ; and, as they were entering the door, “ Nabby,” 
cried the old man, “come down; here is Fritz Hazell, just come 
from sea!” — “You don’t say so!” replied a quick, business-like 
\oire from above ; and, almost immediately after, a round button of 
a body came dumpling into the room ; and, seizing the young sailor 
by the hand, “Why, Fritz Hazell!” said she; “why how you 
have altered ! — You have lost your good old friend. Ah, Fritz! 
there have been strange doings in the valley, since you went away.” 

— ‘ When did Captain Hazell die, and of what distemper?” ii^ 
quired Fritz. — “A little less than two months ago,” said INIrs. 
Foster. “ He died of lung fever. You know how much he always 
disliked Sukey McFlaggon, his niece ; who, certainly, besides marry- 
ing McFlaggon, dio all in hor power to displease the old gentleman ; 
well, only think of it, she is heir of all his property. Thev sav he 


14'. 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


has lefl a very pretty estate here, beside money in Holland. Law- 
yer Grippit says it is no such thing, and that the old man left very 
little. But you know, 1 dare say how was it'” — Fritz replied, 
that he knew nothing of the amount, but that he had heard the 
captain had money at interest, with Van Scrompfen, Brothers, 
and Company, of Amsterdam. — “Lawyer Grippit and Sukey 
McFlaggon,” said the shoe-maker’s wife, “ are going to be married.” 

— “McFlaggon is dead, then?” said Hazell. — “Oh yes,” said 
old Enoch, “ I wonder you didn't hear of it. He has been dead 
these three years. He became a sot; and Tim Smith, — you re- 
member Tim? — he is now in the State’s Prison, for manslaughter; 

— Tim killed him in a row.” — “ She is full eleven years older than 
Lawyer Grippit,” said Mrs. Foster, “ and everybody sees, that he ’s 
after old Captain Hazell’s property. Everybody is talking about it, 
and strange stories aie told. There is old Mrs. Spook, the deacon’s 
VI idow ; she says she is sure, that her husband told her, one evening, 
when he came home later than usual, that he had been with ('aptain 
Hazell, who had been executing a will ; and that Squire Grippit 
and Dr. Manna witnessed it with himself. But Lawyer Grippit 
frightened the old lady shamefully, and threatened to get the Grand 
Jury to sit upon her.” — “No, no, wife,” said her husband, “ ti 
indict her, you mean.” — “ Well, well, so it was,” rejoined Mrs 
Foster; “ besides, the old lady was none of the wisest. However 
the deacon is dead, and Doctor Manna is dead ; and if there ’s an\ 
secret about it, it ’s all locked up, in the squire’s bosom ; but ’t win 
all be known in the great day.” — “ It ’s a strange business,” said 
the old shoe-maker, “ and it ’s very hard to get at the truth. I hear 
a great many rumors, for the matter is talked over by everybody ; 
and I take care to say as little about it as possible.” — Fritz listened 
attejitively to the remarks of old Enoch and his wife, and in perfec 
silence, till he found himself alone with the husband. He then saic 
to him, “ Mr. Foster, I have always had a respect for y(tu, and I 
am sure you are a prudent man. I will therefore state to you, in 
confidence, what I know of this matter, myself ; and I shall proba- 
bly have to ask your counsel and assistance. When Captain Hazell 
was dangerously sick, in the summer of 18 — , about seven years 
ago, 1 know he executed a will, or rather two copies. Mr. Grippit 
told him one was enough ; but he would have it his own way ; and 
said to the lawyer, that one might be lost or mislaid. It va as in the 
evening ; I was in bed, in the same room ; and, I suppose, they 
thought 1 was asleep. I heard the lawyer. Squire (Jrippit, ask the 
captain if he declared that paper to be his last wdll, and he said be 
did. I saw him sign it. I never knew the contents of it ; but I saw 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


141 


the old deacon, Doctor Manna, and the squire, write their names, as 
witnesses, to both papers. One the captain desired Mr. Grippit to 
keep ; and what he did with the other I never knew, till the even- 
ing before I sailed. That evening the captain said to me, that he 
had made his will, and put it away in a place, which he would show 
me, that it might he found, at his death. Of course, I cannot say, 
that it is there now ; hut, if 1, could gain admittance to the house, 1 
could go directly to the spot.” — “ The key is left with me.” said 
Mr. Foster, “ for the convenience of showing the house. What an 
awful sinner Lawyer Grippit must he !” he exclaimed, as he untied 
his apron and put on his coat and hat. — “ We shall want a light,” 
said Fritz Hazell. — They proceeded to the old cottage. As they 
entered, Fritz paused, to take a glance at the little room. The old 
Dutch clock stood in the corner ; it had run down, like its venerable 
master, and was now motionless and still. — Enoch Foster locked 
the door on the inside, and they descended to the cellar ; and, 
removing about ten inches of earth from the northerly comer, tney 
struck upon a hard substance; — “Here is the iron chest,” said 
Fritz. After considerable difficulty, he found the spring. Upon 
lifting the lid, they beheld a mass of gold and silver coin, which 
would have delighted the eyes of Christopher Grippit and Sukey 
McFlaggon. Fritz took up a sealed package, and held it to the 
light. Old Enoch read over his shoulder; “ The last will and testa^ 
ment of Peter HazellP — “ Lord have mercy upon us,” exclaimed 
the old man ; “ what a sinful world we live in !” — They now held 
a short conversation. It was resolved to shut down the chest and 
replace the earth ; and then, without any delay, to post off to the 
Judge of Probate, present the sealed package, and relate their per- 
fectly intelligible story. 

It is high time to bring the history of Fritz Hazell to a close. — 
The hymeneal hopes of Sukey McFlaggon, and her day dreams of 
riches, were grievously disappointed. The judge, haviftg opened 
the will, and perceiving the well-known signature of Lawyer Grip- 
pit, as a subscribing witness, u'as greatly shocked and surprised. He 
could account for Mr. Grippit’s constant averment, that he had never 
heard, that old Hazell had ever made his w’ill, only upon a presump- 
tion of a deep-laid scheme of fraud. Such w^as the fact. Grippit 
knew that he was the only surviving witness ; one copy of the 
will had been in his possession, which he destroyed ; the widow 
McFlaggon was sole heir at law ; and as the other copy was not 
forthcoming, after waiting a month, he presumed it to be lost, or 
among the papers of the aeceased. He then boldly proposed to Mrs. 
Mcl'laggon to claim administration of old Hazell’s estate, and ta 


142 


FRITZ HAZELL. 


become the lady of Christopher Grippit. Thus, as her attorney, he 
had free access to the papers of the defunct ; and, not finding the 
ether copy, after diligent search, he flattered himself, that it was 
^st or destroyed. 

The report, that old Peter Hazell’s will was found, and that Fritz 
had come home from sea, flew with the speed of the wind, from one 
end of Still- Valley to the other. Grippit was summoned, as a sub- 
scribing witness, to prove the will : but he had passed beyond the 
reach of an earthly subpoena. The crime, which he had committed, 
no man better understood, in its eflTecis upon the perpetrator, and he 
rcsc-Tted to suicide to avoid them. 

After some trifling legacies, and fifty pounds to Sukey hlcFlag- 
gon. Captain Hazell left his whole estate “to Patrick McFilligan, 
eomnionly called Fritz Hazell.” 

Fritz was now about eighteen years of age. He was convinced that 
he was not sufficiently robust to endure the fatigues of a seafaring life. 
The means of gratifying his love of study were now entirely at his 
command. He prepared for college, and entered at the age of 
twenty. We have seen already, that the inclinations and the whole 
temperament of this young man were grave and reflective. He took 
orders, when he was nearly six and twenty ; and, at the present 
time, supplies to serious Christians, a stronger aliment, than the 
congregation of Parson Syllabub could have digested, some twelve 
years ago. 

About a year since, he had a visit from his old friend Captain 
Rodney; and as they walked home together from church, “ I told 
you long ago,” said Rodney, “ though you were an excellent sea- 
man, that you would make a better minister, and I find my words 
have proved true.” In the afternoon of that day, he complied with 
the request of Captain Rodney, and preached an old sermon, written 
with a particular reference to some of those incidents which gave 
so great an interest to their voyage in the Antwerp ; and it was with 
a feeling of deep sensibility, that these old friends turned their eyes 
upon each other, when Parson Hazell pronounced the memorable 
text, “ Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find 
T after many days.” 


s, 


WHAT A CURSE! 

OR, 

JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


P%n nothing be done to put an end to the eTilg of intemperance 7 Such, at the present day. .■ a 
eery common interrogatory ; not from those alone, at the heart of whose lo-nestic happiness this 
canker-worm is already ai work ; not from those alone, who have lived in unpardonable ignorance 
of all, that has been so happily accomplished ; but from the most enlightened friends of temperance, 
who keep the run and the record of its way ; who study this deeply-interesting subject, as they study 
a science ; and who, at the same time, are nut so blindly in love with a favorite scheme of coiisuin 
mation, as to forget that no remedy for moral evil can be etleciual, which is calculated to produce a 
greater mischief in ope direction, than i'. proposes to remove in another. 

Can nothing he done, say they, to remcve the.«e evils of intemperance 7 — Have those eight thou- 
sand societies, which are said to exist in the United States, done nothing? Undoubtedly they have 
exerted a benign and blessed influence, upon the hearts of many iliousnnds, who have been per- 
suaded to subscribe the pledse ; — still further, they have operated most happily upon many more, who, 
for some reason or other, have withheld their hands from the pledge, but who have become respec- 
.able temperance men, in word and in deed. — And has not something been done } — Ni thing for me 
and for mine, says the poor widow. I have but one son ; he will not siibsc-ribe the pledge ; and he 
V)ill drink ardent spirit i and the rum-seller will sell it ; and he says it is lawful, an I that therefore 
it is right. My son is a d.unkard. I brought him into life j I nursed Inn. and reared him with care ; 
I have watched over hini .n sickness ; I have pinched and spaied, that he might be better clothed 
artd better fed than mvself ; and I am now the heart-broken mother ol a thankle.s child. Societies 
have nil lutibtedly been useful to the world ; but they have done iiulliing for me. Cannot something 
oe done to save the last hope of a poor w idow ? 

And has nothing been done, by that multiplying engine, which, for years, has been employed in 
scattering, over the surface of Die errth. Journals and magazines, tracts and tales ; and iirigatiiig 
the moral world, as it were, with refreshing and invigorating showers? — It may be so, says the mis- 
erable, broken spirited wife ; but I am sure it has done nothing fur me. 1 am adrunkard’s wife ; such, 
fur years of bitterness, I have lived ; such, I doubt nut, I shall die. I gave to a faithless promiser a 
devoted heart, and my humble store of worldly goods; he has broken the one and wasted the otlier. 
The press may send forth its legion of messengers; but he will not read one ol them all ; and, sli uhl 
he hnd one in my hands, he would hurl it into the Are, as he has dune belore. My chihlren are beg- 
gars ; my spirit is gone ; and, as I rock my child in its cradle, by the fading embers of a midnight 
fire, waiting for the return of a drunken tyrant, I say within my wretched heart, in the language of 
Job, I would nut live always I Cannot something be done to stay this desolating plague ? 

And has not something been do le by thousands of lectures and ad'lresses, gratuitously delivered, 
And, ol course, open to all ? — Beyond all doubt, says the agonized father ; but they have no power 
over my domestic aiHiction. -My son is a drunkard. He will not go and listen to such things. I 
fear nothing will be dyne. We may lecture, and write, and associate ; but nothing will be do e to 
reach a case of misery like mine. I had once some hope, that the legislature would atlbrd rel el. But 
what is a legislature ? I have taken some pains to analyze the mass, and examine its elements. 
We are a government of the people. If a majority of the people are for Juggernaut, an I the idol’s 
temples are in danger trom legisluiive interference, the majority of the people will take care, that a 
majority of the legislature shall he tlie friends and worshippers of Juggernaut. Can a riiiu-selling 
legislator be expe-ted to legisl.ite against rum I Coiiteniplate the tavern-keepers, retailers, grocers, 
distillers, and importers in a legislature ; add to this list that indifferent and movable body, so easily 
won over to either side ; swell Die catalogue, by the addition of every temperate drinker ; and, last 
of all, annex the names of the base unknown, those fourteen shameless men, who voted for a notori- 
ous infidel, as the chaplain of the House ol Representatives, in this ancient Commonwealth ; look,fui 
a moment, at Die aggregate, and then repeat the interrogatory ; — Will anything be done to put an 
•nd to the evils of intemperance 7 — The only pro li table reply to this ihquiiy must come, in God’s good 
time, from a legislative majority of cold-water men. 


“ The doctor is a kind man,” said Johnny Hodges, addressing a 
person of respectable appearance, who was in the act of returning 
to his pocket-book a, physician’s bill, which the blacksmith did not 
find it convenient to pay. “ The doctor is a kind man, a very kind 
man, and has earned his money, I dare say, and I don’t begrudge 
him a shilling of it all ; but, for all that, I have not the means of 


144 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


paying his bill, nor any part of it, f.Bt now. ” — Well, well,” 
said the collector, “ 1 shall be this way before long, and will call on 
you again.” 

Johnny flodges thanked hi:n for the indulgence, and proceeded 
with his work : but the hammer swung heavily upon the anvil, and 
many a long sigh escaped, before the job in hand was fairly turned 

off. 

Three or four times already, the collector had paid a visit at the 
blacksmith’s shop, who was always ready to admit the justice of the 
claim, and that the doctor had been very kind and attentive, and had 
well earned his money ; but Johnny was always behindhand ; and, 
though full of professions of gratitude to the good doctor, yet the doc- 
tor’s bill seemed not very likely to be paid. Familiarity, saith the pro- 
verb, breeds contempt. This old saw is not apt to work more roughly, 
in any relation of life, than between the creditor, or the creditor’s 
agent, and the non-performing debtor. The pursuing party is apt 
to become importunate, and the pursued to grow gradually callous 
and indifferent. Upon the present occasion, however, the collector, 
who was a benevolent man, was extremely patient and forbearing. 
He had sufficient penetration to perceive, that poor Johnny, for some 
cause or other, was always exceedingly mortified and pained, by 
these repeated applications. It did not, however, escape the suspi- 
cion of the collector, that there might be a certain, secret cause, for 
Johnny’s inability to pay the doctor’s bill. Intemperance is exhib- 
ited, in a great variety of modifications. While some individuals 
are speedily roused into violent and disorderly action, or hushed to 
slumber, and reduced to the condition of a helpless and harmless 
mass ; others, provided by nature with heads of iron and leathern 
skins, are equally intemperate, yet scarcely, for many years, present 
before the world the slightest personal indication of their habitual 
indulgence. 

Johnny Hodges was an excellent workman, and he had abun- 
dance of work. It was not easy to account for such an appropriation 
of his earnings, as would leave him not enough for the payment of 
the doctor’s bill ; upon any other supposition, than that of a waste- 
ful and sinful employment of them, for the purchase of strong drink. 
Johnny’s countenance, to be sure, was exceedingly pale and sallow; 
but the pale-faced tippler is, by no means, an uncommon spectacle. 
On the other hand, Johnny was very industrious, constantly in his 
shop in working hours, and always busily employed. 

After an interval of several weeks, the collector called again, and 
put the customary question, “ Well, Mr. Hodges, can you pay the 
doctor’s billl” Perhaps there was something unusually hurried or 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


149 


importunate, or Johnny so thought, in the manner of making 
the inquiry. Johnny was engaged in turning a shoe, and he 
hammered it entirely out of shape. He laid down his hammer 
and tongs, and, for a few seconds, rested his cheek upon his hand. 
'—“I don’t know how I can pay the doctor’s bill,” said Johnny 
Hodges. “I’ve nothing here in the shop, but my tools and a 
very little stock ; and I ’ve nothing at home, but the remainder of 
our scanty furniture. I know the doctor’s bill ought to be paid, and 
if he will take it, he shall be welcome to our cow, though I have 
five little children who live upon the milk.” — “ No, no, Hodges ” 
said the collector, “ you are much mistaken, if you suppose the du« 
tor, who is a Christian and a kind-hearted man, would take your 
cow or oppress you at all, for the amount of his bill. But how is it 
that you, who have always so much work, have never any money?” 
— “ Ah, sir,” said Johnny Hodges, while he wiped the perspiration 
from his face, for he was a hard-working man ; “Ah, sir,” said he, 
“ what a curse it is ! — can nothing be done to put a stop to this 
intemperance ? I hear a great deal of the efforts, that are making ; 
but still the rum business goes on. If it were not for the tempta- 
tions to take strong drink, I should do well enough ; and the good 
doctor should not have sent twice for the amount of his bill 
Very few of those, who write and talk so much of intemperance, 
know anything of our trials and troubles.” — “I confess,” said the 
collector, “ that I have had my suspicions and fears before. — Why 
do you not resolve, that you will never touch another drop? Go, 
Hodges, like a man, and put your name to the pledge ; and pray 
God to enable you to keep it faithfully.” — “ Why, as to that, sir,” 
said the blacksmith, “ the pledge will do me no good ; the difficulty 
doesn’t lie there. — What a curse! — Is there no prospect of 
putting an end to intemperance?” — “ To be sure there is,” replied 
the collector. “If people will sign the pledge, and keep it too, 
there is no difficulty.” — “But, suppose they will not sign the 
pledge,” rejoined Johnny Hodges, “still, if rum were not so com- 
mon as it is, and so easily obtained, the temptation would be taken 
away.” — “ That is all very true, but it is every man’s duty to do 
/something lor himself,” replied the collector. “I advise you to 
sign the pledge, as soon as possible.” — “ Why, sir,” said the black- 
smith, “ the difficulty doesn’t lie there, as I told you ; I signed the 
pledge long ago, and I have kept it well. I never was given to 
taking spirit in my life. My labor at the forge is pretty hard work, 
yet I take nothing stronger, for drink, than cold water.” — “I ant 
Sony, tliat I misunderstood you,” replied the collector. “But, 
since you do not take spirit, and your children, as you have led me 
VOL. I. 13 


146 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


to suppose, are of tender years ; why are you so anxious for the 
suppression of intemperance?” — “Because,” said poor Johnny 
Hodges, after a pause, and with evident emotion, “to tell you the 
plain truth, it has made my home a hell, my wife a drunkard, and 
my children beggars ! Poor things,” said he, as he brushed away 
the tears, “ they have no mother any more. The old cow, that 1 
offered you, just now, for the doctor’s debt, — and I believe it would 
have broken their hearts to have parted with old Brindle, — is mere 
of a mother to them now, than the woman who brought them into 
this world of trouble. I have little to feed old Brindle with ; and 
the children are running here and there, for a little swill and such 
matters, to keep her alive. Even the smallest of these poor things 
will pick up a bunch of hay or a few scattered corn-stalks, and fetch 
it to her, and look on with delight, to see her enjoy it. I have 
seen them all together, when their natural mother, in a drunken 
spree, has driven them out of doors, flying for refuge to the old 
cow, and lying beside her in the shed. — What a cur.se it is ! 

“ What will become of them and of me,” continued this broken 
hearted man, “ I cannot tell. I sometimes fear, that I shall lose 
my reason, and be placed in the mad-house. Such is the thirst of 
this wretched woman for rum, that she has repeatedly taken my 
tools, and carried them five or six miles, and pawned or sold them 
for liquor. The day before yesterday, I carried home a joint of 
meat, for dinner. When I went home, tired ancf hungry, at the 
dinner hour, I found her drunk and asleep upon the floor. She had 
sold the joint of meat, and spent the money ’In rum. It ’s grievous 
to tell such matters to a stranger, but I can’t bear that you or the 
good doctor should think me ungrateful any longer. I never shall 
forget the doctor’s kindness to me, two years ago, when I had my 
dreadful fever; and, if ever I can get so much money together, he 
shall certainly be paid. That fever was brought on, partly by hard 
work, but the main spring of the matter was in the mind. My wife 
was then getting very bad, and when she was in liquor, her language 
was both indecent and profane ; though, when we were married, 
there was n’t a more modest girl in the parish. Just before my 
fever came on, in one of her fits of intemperance, she stit)iled away, 
and was gone three days and three nights ; and, to this hour, I have 
never known where she was, all that time It almost broke my 
hsart. The doctor alw'ays said there was something upon my 
mind ; hut I never told him, nor any one else, the cause of my 
trouble till now. What a curse ! — Don’t you think, sir, that some- 
thing can be done to put an end to this terrible curse of intemper- 
•ttoe?” — “ Your case is a very hard one,” said the collector^ after 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


147 


A solemn pause, “ and T wish I could point out a remedy. You 
need give yourself no uneasiness about the doctor’s bill, foi 1 atti 
sure he will think no more of it, when I have told him your story, 
[f 1 would not give you too much pain, and lake up too much of 
your time, I should like to be infonned, a little more particularly, 
of the commencement and progress of this habit in your wife, which 
seems to have destroyed your domestic happiness.” — Johnny 
Hodges wiped his brow, and sat down upon a bench in his shop, 
and the collector took a seal by his side. 

Eight years ago,” said Johnny Hodges, “ come the fii*st day of 
nex' month, I was married. Polly Wilson, that was her maiden 
name, was twenty-three, and I was four years older. I certainly 
thought it the best day’s work 1 ever did, and 1 continued of that 
mind, for about five years. Since then Heaven know's I have had 
reason to think otherwise ; for, ever since, trouble has been about 
my path, and about my bed. About three years ago, my wife 
took to drink. I cannot tell how it happened ; but she always said, 
herself, that the first drop of gin she ever drank, was upon a wash- 
ing day, when an old Scotch woman persuaded her, that it would 
keep the cold off her stomach. From that time, the habit grew 
upon her very fast. She has told me an hundred times, in her 
sober moments, that she would give the world to leave it off, but 
that she could not, for the life of her So strong has been her desire 
to get liquor, that nothing was safe from her grasp. She has 
sold her children’s Sabbath clothes, and my own, for rum. After 1 
had gotten well of my fever, I worked hard ; and, at one time, had 
laid by nearly enough, as I supposed, to pay the doctor's bill. One 
day, I had received a dollar for work, and went to my drawer, to 
add it to the rest ; and — all was gone ! The drawer had been 
forced open. She knew that I had been saving the money to pay the 
doctor, and the apothecary, for their services, during my fever ; she 
knew that my sickness had been produced by sleepless nights and 
a broken heart, on her account ; yet she could not resist the temp 
tatian. She affirmed, in the most solemn manner, that she knew 
nothing about it; but two of the little children, in answer to my 
inquiry, told me, that they had seen mammy break open the drawer, 
and take out the money ; and that she went directly over to the 
grocery, and in about half an hour, after she returned, went to 
shtep so soundly in her chair, that they could not wake her up, to 
get them a little supper. At that time, I went to Mr. Calvin 
Leech, the grocer, and told him, that I wondered, as he was a 
church member, how he could have the heart to ruin the peace of 
my family. He was very harsh, and told me, that every man must 
lake care of hjs own wife* and dt'at it was not his .bXisinesS to look 


J48 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


after mine. I began to think, with Job, that I would not live 
always. Strange fancies came into my head about that time, and I 
tried hard to think of some escape from such a world of sin and 
sorrow ; but a kind and merciful God would not let me take my 
own wild way. I read my Bible ; and the poor children kept all 
the while in my way,. smiling sweetly in my face, and driving all 
evil thoughts from my mind. My oldest boy was then about seven. 
“ Don't take on so, daddy,” the little fellow used to say, when he 
foand me shedding tears, “ don’t cry, daddy ; I shall be big enough' 
to blow the bellows next year.” I have tried to keep up, for the 
<ake of these poor children ; and few would be better, for their 
years, if their mother did not teach some of them to curse and 
swear. They have the same bright look and gentle temper that my 
wife had, when we were married. There never was a milder tem- 
per than Polly's, before this curse fell upon the poor creature. Oh, 
sir, it is nothing but rum, that has ruined our hopes of happiness in 
this world. How strange it is, that nothing can be done to stay 
such a dreadful plague!” 

The collector shook the poor blacksmith by the hand, and bade 
him keep up his spirits, as well as he could, and put his trust in 
God's providence. Promising to make him a friendly call, in tho 
course of a few days, he took his leave. 

This interview, with the blacksmith, had caused his visitor to 
contemplate the subject of the temperance reform, somewhat in 
a novel point of view. The importunate and frequently repeated 
mterrogatory of Johnny Hodges, “ Cannot something be done to 
flit an ena to the evils of intemperance? '' to most individuals, would 
appear to savor of gross ignorance, in the inquirer, as to those amaz- 
ing efforts, which have already been made, at home and abroad. 
But it must not be forgotten, that poor Hodges was no theorixer in 
that department of domestic wretchedness, which arises from intem- 
perance. He w'as well aware, that a prodigious effort had been 
made, for the purification of the world, by voluntary associations, 
adopting the pledge of total abstinence. He perfectly understood, 
that all those, wiio had subscribed such a pledge, and faithfully 
adhered to it, were safe from the effects of intemperance, in their 
owm persons. Yet this poor fellow cried aloud, out of the very 
d( pths of his real misery, “ Cannot something be done to put an end 
to the evils of intemperance? ” His ow n bitter experience had taught 
him, that there was one person w ho could never be prevailed upon 
to sign the pledge ; one, upon w hose faithful execution of her do- 
mestic duties, his w hole earthly happiness depended ; the j)artner 
of his bosom ; the mother of his children ; and she had become a 
lohthsc^ and ungtivfernable drunkattl. He rationally infenWd, 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


149 


indeed he well knew the fact, from his own observation upon the 
surrounding neigliborhood, that such an occurrence was not of an 
uncommon character. Intemperate husbands, intemperate wives, 
and intemperate children were all around him. Johnny Hodges was 
a man of good common sense. He reasoned forward to the future 
from the past. He entertained no doubt, that, notwithstanding the 
most energetic, voluntary efforts of all the societies upon the face of 
the earth, drunkenness would certainly continue, in a greater or less 
degree, so long as the means of drunkenness were suffered to remain. 
The process of reasoning in Johnny's mind may be very easily 
described. So long, thought he, as rum-selling coniinues to be 
sanctioned by law, and grog-shops are legalized, at every corner; 
so ’ong as even deacons and church members distil rum, and sell it., 
reducing the temperate drinker’s noble to the drunkard’s nine-[)ence, 
and that nine-pence to nothing and a jail ; winning away the bread 
from the miserable tippler’s children ; and causing the husband and 
wife to hate and /abhor the very presence of each other; so huig a 
very considerable number of persons, who will not sign the pledge, 
will be annually converted from temperate men and women, into 
drunken vagabonds and paupers. The question is therefore reduced 
to this ; Can no effectual measures be provided by law, to prevent 
a cold, calculating, mercenary body of men from trafficking any 
longer, in broken hopes, broken hearts, and broken constitutions ; 
and to restrain, at least, deacons and church members, who pray to 
the Lord to lead them not into temptation, from laying snares, along 
the highways and hedges of the land, to entrap the feet of their 
fellow-creatures, and tempt their weaker brethren to their ruin ? 

A month or more had passed away, before the collector's business 
brought him again into the neighborhood of the blacksmith’s shop. 
Johnny Hodges was at work as usual. He appeared dejected and 
care-worn. His visitor shook him by the hand, and told him, that 
the doctor said he should consider him, as old Boerhaave used to say, 
one of his best patients, for God would be his paymaster. “ Never 
think of the debt any more, Johnny,” said the collector. “ The 
doctor has sent you his bill, receipted ; and he bade me tell you, that 
if a little money would help you in your trouble, you should be 
heartily welcome to it.”* “Indeed,” said the blacksmith, “the 

*I have learned, since the preparation of this tale, from the collector him- 
self, that Hodges expressed the liveliest gratitude, for the doctor’s kindness, 
in relinquishing his claim for professional services ; but that he persisted in 
refusing to receive a tive-dollar note, which accompanied the receipted bill; 
— “God will reward the doctor for all his kindness,” said the poor fellow 
“ but I cannot take the money.” 

▼OL. I. 13 * 


150 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


lector is a kind friend ; but I suppose nothing can be done to pot 
m end to this curse?” — “ I fear there will not be, at present,” said 
he collector : “ rum is the idol of the people. The friends of tem- 
:)erance have petitioned the legislature to pull this old idol down. 
Now there are, in that very body, a great many members, who love 
the idol dearly ; there are many, who are sent thither expressly to 
keep the idol up. So you see, that petitioning the legislature, such 
as it now is, to abolish the traffic in rum, is like petitioning the 
priests of Baal to pull down their false god. But you look pale and 
sad ; has any new trouble come upon you, or do you find the old one 
more grievous to bear?” — “ Ah, sir,” said this man of many woes, 
“ we have had trouble enough, new and old, since you were here 
last. Intemperance must be a selfish vice, I am sure. About a 
fortnight ago, my wife contrived, while I was gone to the city to 
procure a few bars of iron, to sell our old cow to a drover; and this 
woman, once so kind-hearted and thoughtful of her children, would 
see them starve, rather than deprive herself of the means of intoxi- 
cation. She has been in liquor every day since. But all this is 
nothing compared with our other late trial. Last Monday night, I 
was obliged to be from home, till a very late hour. I had a promise 
from a neighbor to sit up at my house, till my return, to look after 
the children, and prevent the house from being set on fire. But the 
promise was forgotten. When 1 returned, about eleven o’clock, all 
was quiet. I struck a light, and, finding my wife was in bed, and 
sound asleep, I looked round for the children. The four older chil- 
dren I readily found, but little Peter, our infant, about thirteen 
months old, I could find nowhere. After a carefiil search, I shook 
my wife by the shoulder, to wake her up, that I might learn, if 
possible, what had become of the child. After some time, though 
e\ idently under the influence of liquor, I awakened this wretched 
woman, and made her understand me. She then made a sign, that 
it was in the bed. I proceeded to examine, and found the poor 
suffering babe beneath her. She had pressed the life out of its little 
body. — It was quite dead. — It was but yesterday, that I put it 
into the ground. If you can credit it, this miserable mother was so 
intoxicated, that she could not follow it to the grave. What can a 
poor man do, with such a burthen as this? The owner of the little 
tenement, in which 1 have lived, has given me notice to quit, because 
he says, and reasonably enough too, that the chance of my wife’s 
setting It on fire is growing greater every day. However, 1 feel 
that within me, that promises a release before long, from all this 
insufferable misery. But what will become of my poor children !” 
— Johnny sat down upon a bench, and burst into tears. His visitor, 












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1 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 151 

as we have said, was a kind-hearted man. — “ Suppose I should get 
some discreet person to talk with your wife,” said he. — Johnny 
raised his eyes and his hands, at the same moment. “ Talk with 
ner!” he replied, “you may as well talk with a whirlwind ; the 
abuse, which she poured on me, this morning, for proposing to bring 
.our good minister to talk with her, would have made your liair stand 
on end. No, I am heart-broken, and undone, for this world. 1 
have no hope, save in a better, through the mercies of God.” — 
The visitor took the poor man by the hand, and silently departed. 
He uttered not a word ; he was satisfied that nothing could be said 
to abate the domestic misery of poor Johnny Hodges in the piesenl 
world ; and there was something in his last words, and in the tone 
in which they were uttered, which assured the visitor, that Johnny’s 
unshaken confidence in the promises of God would not be disap- 
pointed in another. 

How entirely inadequate is the most finished delineation, to set 
forth, in true relief, the actual sum total of such misery as this ! 
How little conception have all those painted male and female butter- 
flies and moths, who stream along our public walks of a sunny 
morning, or flutter away their lives in our fashionable saloons ; — 
how little conception have they of the real pressure of such practi- 
cal wretchedness as this ! To the interrogatory of poor Johnny 
Hodges, “Can nothing be done to put an end to the evils of intem- 
perance V what answer, here and hereafter, do those individuals 
propose to oflor, who not only withhold their names from the tem- 
perance pledge, but who light up their castles ; and call together 
the giddy and the gay of both sexes ; and devote one apartment of 
their palaces, in the present condition of public sentiment, chastened 
and purified, as it is, to the whiskey punch bowl! 

The summer had passed, and the harvest was over. About four 
months after the last interview, 1 heard, for the first time, the story 
of poor Johnny Hodges. Taking upon my tablets a particular direc- 
tion to his house and shop, I put on my surtout, and set forth, upon 
a clear, cold November morning, to pay the poor fellow a visit. It 
\>-as not three miles from the city to his dwelling. By the special 
direction, which I had received, I readily identified the shop. The 
doors were closed, — for it was a sharp, frosty morning. I wished 
to see the poor fellow at his forge, before I disclosed the object of 
my visit. I opened the door. He was not there. The bellows 
were still. — The last spark had gone out in the forge. — The ham- 
mer and tongs were thrown together. — Johnnv’s apron was lying 
carelessly upon the bench. — And the iron, upon which he had been 
working, lay cold upon the anvil. — I turned towards the littla 


152 


JOHNNY HODGES, THE BLACKSMITH. 


dwelling. That also had been abandoned. A short conversation 
with an elderly man, who proved to be a neighbor, soon put my 
doubts and uncertainties at rest. The conclusion of this painful little 
nistory may be told, in a very few words. The wife, who, it ap* 
pears, notwithstanding her gross intemperance, retained no incon- 
siderable portion of personal comeliness, when not absolutely drunk ; 
had run off, in company with a common soldier, abandoning her 
husband and children about three months before. Five days only 
before my visit, poor Johnny Hodges, having died of a broken neari, 
was committed to that peaceful grave, where the wdcked cease from 
troubling, and where the weary are at rest. On the same day, four 
little children were received, after the funeral, as inmates of the 
poor-house. 

“ I have known them well, all their life-long,” said the old man, 
from whom I obtained the information. “ The first four or five 
years of their married life, there was not a likelier, nor a thriftier, 
nor a happier couple, in the village. Hodges was at his forge early 
and late ; and his wife was a pattern of neatness and industry. But 
the poor woman was just as much poisoned with rum, as ever a man 
was with arsenic. It changed her nature, until, at last, it rendered 
her a perfect nuisance. Everybody speaks a kind word of poor 
Hodges ; and everybody says that his wife killed him, and brought 
his children to the poor-house. This is a terrible curse to be sure. 
Pray, sir, ‘ canH something be done to put an end to the evils of in- 
temperance V ” — Such, thought I, was the inquiry of poor Johnny 
Hodges. How long can the intelligent legislatures of our country 
conscientiously permit this inquiry to pass, without a satisfactory 
reply ? How many more wives shall be made the enemies of their 
own household ; how many moie children shall be made orphans ; 
how many more temperate men shall be converted into drunken 
paupers ; before the power of the law shall be exerted, to stay the 
plague ! In the present condition of the world, while the legislature 
throws its fostering arm around this cruel occupation, how many 
there are, who will have abundant cause to exclaim, like poor Johnny 
Hodges, from the bottom of their souls, — What a curse ! — How 
many shall take as fair a departure for the voyage of life, and make 
shipwreck of all their earthly hopes, in a similar manner ! How 
many hearts, not guilty of presumptuous sins, but grateful for 
Heaven’s blessings in some humble sphere, shall be turned, by such 
misery as this, into broken cisterns, which can hold no earthly joy ! 
How many husbands of drunken wives; how many wives of drunken 
husbands how many miserable children, flying in terror from the 
walking corpses of inebriated parents, shall cry aloud, like poor 
Johnny Hodges, in the language of despair. What a curse! 


A WORD IN SEASON, 

OR 

THE SAILOR’S WIDOV/. 


A rentle prsuure upon a delicate spnii? will sometimes open the way, and remove an ubatruetilM, 
which all other means have heen applied in vain to oven ome. The povveis of eloqnen. e, the ftnrM 
ol reason, the precepts ot religion have been brought, inetiectiiallr, lo bear upon the bead and heart, 
for many successive years ; yet a single suggestion, from an unexpected quarter, in some fortunatt 
moment, has, at last, fixed nself upo.i the mind with iiresistible power, and sunk into the heail,and 
subdued the affecti ms, and been the immediate means, Under the blessing ol God, of turning the 
sinner from his ways. 

There are examples of moderate and immoderate drinkers, who have turned a deaf ear to the 
admonitions of the wise, and to the earnest exhort itions of the r friends; they have continued, 
imperceptibly to themselves, hut manifestiv to all beside, to approach nearer and nearer to the fatal 
precipice from day to day. Toall'iiuman observation, their destruction has appeared to be me vita tile . 
But It was not so written in the volumeof Gou’s holy will. The tears of a disappointed and heartless 
wife, or a word in season, even from the lips of a child, have, occasionally, recalled the wanderer 
from his ruinous career. 

The little narrative, which follows, is an illustration of these remarks from real life. 


The face of a beautiful child is an object of peculiar attraction, 
w'hen smiles and tears are striving for the mastery there. Mr. 
Selden’s attention was so completely arrested by this very condition 
of things, exhibited on the countenance of little Arthur, a boy about 
seven years of age, that he put down the decanter, which he held 
in his hand, and, for a moment, contemplated the features of this 
uncommonly interesting child, with an expression of delight and 
surprise. The consciousness, that he had attracted the observation 
of his father, prompted that smile, which beamed upon the boy’f. 
features, when he encountered the inquiring glance of an affection- 
ait parent ; but the conflict was not yet over ; the sunbeam had not 
yet dried up the shower. — “What is the matter with Artliur?” 
said Mr. Selden to his amiable wife, who sat, with her Bible in her 
hand, waiting for the first stroke of the village bell. It was Sab- 
bath day, and she was about to proceed with her children to th( 
house of God. Mr. Selden had ordered his horse and gig, and pro 
posed to pass the morning in visiting his greenhouse, in a neighbor 
ing village. “ What is the matter with Arthur?” said he, repeating 
the question, as he again raised the brandy-bott’e from the sideboard 
“ 1 really cannot imagine, my dear,” replied Mrs. Selden : “go u 
papa, my child,” continued she, “ and tell him what is the matter.’ 
The little fellow walked reluctantly toward his father. “ Coiw 


154 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 


tell me what makes you weep so, my son,” said his father, patting 
him gently upon the head. — ” Why, dear papa, I was thinking,” 
said the child, in a trembling voice, “ I was thinking how we should 
all cry, if you should die, dear papa, like poor Jemmy.” — ” And 
pray, who was poor Jemmy?” inquired Mr. Selden, — “ He. was a 
drunkard, dear papa,” replied little Arthur, as he continued to weep 
by his father's knee. — “I should really like to know,” said Mr. 
Selden, evidently with excited temper, and turning a glance of angry 
suspicion upon his wife, as he put down the brandy bottle, with 
some violence, upon the table ; “I should like to know who has 
been giving this child his first lesson in impudence.” — If the child's 
remark had been altogether inapplicable to the parent’s condition , it 
would have excited no unpleasant sensation in the mind of Mr 
Selden. It was manifestly otherwise. This gentleman’s habits had 
been, for some time, a source of disquietude to several of his friends. 
Upon the present occasion, little Afthur had most innocently un- 
veiled the picture, and presented it, in full view, before his father’s 
face. The words of truth and soberness occasionally drop from the 
lips of these little ones, with irresistible power. The seeds of com- 
mon sense, cast into the natural soil, will often spring up and bear 
fruit, before we are prepared to expect the harvest. Tears came 
into the eyes of Mrs. Selden ; — it was impossible for an affectionate 
wife to contemplate, even in imagination, the painful perspective of 
such a picture, without sorrow. — “I know nothing of poor Jemmy’s 
story, my dear,” said she ; “I have never heard of it before, and I 
have not the slightest idea that any person has instructed the child 
to say anything offensive to your feelings.” 

“ Arthur, my son,” said Mr. Selden, evidently struggling to 
suppress more than one emotion of his soul, “who is poor Jemmy, 
and who told you the story, my dear? Let me know all about it.” 
— “ Oh no, dear papa,” said the child, as he wiped the tears from 
his eyes ; “ it is too long a story to tell you now, for the bell begins 
to ring. But Jemmy was the son of Mary Morrison, the washer- 
woman. Mary told it, last washing day, to sister Nancy, and 1 
stood by and heard it all. It will make you cry, father, I know it 
will. Old Robert, the coachman, heard it, and he cried a great 
deal ; though he pretended to be whistling and cleaning his harness ; 
and he was angry with me because I peeped under his hat.” — 
“ Well, well,” said his sister, a very pretty girl of sixteen, who had 
just come into the room, to go with her mother to church, and who 
had caught the last words ; “ well, well, master Arthur, I wonder 
who dreamed of Jemmy Morrison, last night, and cried about him 
in the morning!” — “And what if I did, sister Nancy?” said 


A WORD IN SEASON, OK THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 155 

Arthur : “ when poor Mary told us the story, you cried as much aa 
she did : and, mother, Nancy has written half a sheet of poetry, 
about poor Jemmy Morrison, and wet the paper so with her tears, 
that she could not write any more.” — “ Come, my children,” said 
Mrs. Selden, “let us go. — My dear,” continued she, turning to 
her husband, “ I suppose you will return from your ride before 
dinner.” — “I shall not ride this morning,” he replied ; and, calling 
old Robert, he directed him to put up his horse. “ I will walk to 
church with you, Susan,” said Mr. Selden to his wife. — “Will 
you, my dear husband?” she replied : “I am truly rejoiced to hear 
you say so.” — “ Only think of it,” whispered little Arth :j tc his 
sister, in the entry, “ father is going to meeting!” 

Little Arthur was delighted to hold his father’s hand, and walk 
by his side. For more than two years, the members of this little 
family had not enjoyed the happiness of walking to God’s house, in 
company together. The sermon was one of the Reverend Mr. 

’s most admirable appeals to the consciences of impenitent men. 

Nothing occurred to lessen the edifying solemnity of the Sabbath, 
excepting the officious efforts of little Arthur to find the hymn for 
his father, whom he considered, in some degree, as a stranger, at the 
head of his own pew. 

“ You cannot tell, my dear husband,” said Mrs. Selden, as they 
returned from church, “ how very happy you have made me, by 
going with me, this morning, to the house of God, instead of pass- 
ing it in your greenhouse. Look, my dear, at those little ones,” 
continued this affectionate wife ; “ what are all the plants upon the 
earth, from the cedar to the hyssop; — what are they to us com- 
pared with these ! Can we, consistently and rationally, devote our 
moments, few and fleeting as they are, — and, especially, can we 
devote the better part of God’s holy day to the care and cultivation 
of perishable shrubs, while we have these precious shoots immedi- 
ately before us, which it is our peculiar duty so to nurture, that they 
may be ready, in that hour, when God shall transplant them into 
paradise I ” — These were words in season. Though he replied not, 
the mind of Mr. Selden had evidently been solemnized. They were 
not he only words in season, which had sunk, that day, and settled 
in the softened heart. 

At the dinner hour, the brandy bottle was placed upon the talle, 
as usual ; but its contents remained untasted and untouched. — “ O, 
mother,” cried little Arthur, when his father had left the room, “1 
am so glad, papa has not taken any brandy to-day ! 1 wish he 

could hear Mary Morrison tell about her poor Jemmy ; I am sure 
father would never take any more.” 


1^6 K WORD IN SEASON, OK THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 

In the afternoon, Mr. Selden again accompanied his family to the 
house of God. Tliough unusually silent through the day, liis coun- 
tenance betokened a subdued and anxious spirit within. “ Should 
my husband,” thought Mrs. Selden, “ from this day, renounce a 
habit, which has filled us with sorrow and apprehension, can we 
doubt that a kind and all-merciful God has put a uwrd in season mtf» 
the mouth of our little boy ; and made him the unconscious minister 
of incalculable good to us all ! ” 

The tea service had scarcely been removed, when little Arthur 
came running up stairs from the kitchen, to announce that Mary 
Morrison was below, ^t was the habit of this poor woman to stop 
in, of a Sabbath evening, and pass half an hour with Mr. Selden'a 
domestics. “ Oh, dear father,” said little Arthur, “do let Mary 
Morrison come up and tell the story of poor Jemmy.” — “ Perhaps, 
my child,” said Mrs. Selden, “ your papa may not wish to hear it, 
and possibly it may embarrass poor Mary.” — “ Let her come up, 
my dear, if she will,” said Mr. Selden : “we are quite alone, and 
I have heard so much of this famous story, that I should like to 
hear the story itself.” — Long before the last words had been uttered, 
Arthur, without waiting for any other commission, had rushed into 
the kitchen, and begun to negotiate with Mary Morrison for the story 
of Jemmy. But his success was not equal to his zeal. This tale 
of sorrow could not be told, by poor Mary, without levying a tax 
upon the heart. Though she had worked, for several years, in the 
Selden family, little had been known of her private history, saving 
that she was very industrious, very honest, and very poor. During 
the preceding week, some casual association had renewed the recol- 
lection of her sorrows ; and, for the first time, she had freely and 
feelingly related the story, which had made such a forcible impres- 
sion on the minds of Mr. Selden’s children. — “ You must not 
expect a famous story, dear father,” said Nancy, “ even if Mary 
Morrison can be prevailed on to tell it.” — “ Well, my dear,” said 
Mi 3 . Selden, “ I do not know that we can do better than listen to 
this tale of real misery ; go down and induce the poor woman to 
come up.” — In a short time the children returned with Mary Mor- 
rison. Mr. Selden bade her sit down, as she would be weary 
before she had finished her story ; and little Arthur’s services were 
not wanting, in furnishing a chair. But some time elapsed, before 
she could overcome her scruples and accept the proffered kindness. 
Mary Morrison was apparently about five-and-forty years of age. 
She had evidently been very pretty in her youth. Care had done 
more than time in rendering her less so ; and her hair had become 
prematurely gray. She was tidily dressed, in her Sabbath apparel 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 


157 


“Mary,” said Mrs. Selden, with great kindness of manner, “Mr. 
Selden and myself do not wish to cause you unnecessary pain, but 
we have heard from our children such an interesting account of the 
loss of your son James, that we are very desirous of hearing the 
story from yourself ; and we should be glad to hear some account 
of your husband also.” 

“ Why, ma'am,” said Mary Morrison, “ I will tell you and Mr 
Sev«len the story, as I told it to Miss Nancy, the other day. My 
chief misfortune was the death of my poor Jemmy. I thought, 
when his father was lost, there could be no trouble, in this world, 
greater than that ; but, when I came to part with Jemmy, I was 
forced to grieve not only for the poor boy's death, but for the man- 
ner of it too. It well nigh broke my heart, but God has bound it 
up ; so that I am comforted in the hope of meeting my dear bus- 
band, in a better world ; and as for Jemmy, it will be known, that 
the poor lad was not lost through any neglect of mine. 

“ My father and mother were very poor. They were industrious, 
and yet I do not think they were thrifty. Both my parents were in 
the habit of taking spirit, in the old-fashioned way. A great deal 
of all the little money they had went for rum, and a great deal of 
time was wasted in drinking it. Yet I am sure I never saw either 
of them ‘ the worse for Ii(juor and, in this respect, I have learned 
to know that they were very lucky. Whether it was owing to my 
father’s habit of drinking or not, I cannot say, but he was confined 
with rheumatism, for the last four years of his life ; and died so 
poor, that my mother and her three children went to the poor-house. 
I was the oldest, and was bound out to a family, that afterwards 
moved into the city. When I was sixteen, I became acquainted with 
George Morrison. The lady, with whom I lived, seeing that 
George and myself were attached to each other, very kindly, but 
without my knowledge, made inquiries respecting him. ‘ Mary,’ said 
slie one day to me, ‘ are you going to be married to George I’ I 
told her I thought of it. ‘ Well,’ said she, ‘ you can’t do better. 
[ have taken pains to inquire, and I hear he is an honest, worthy 
young man.’ We were married, when I was eighteen, and he was 
twenty-five ; and, as far as I can judge, there was about as much 
happiness, in the four years of our marriage, as many others ara 
permitted to see, in the course of a long life. When my heart 
rebels, and my tears begin to flow, I try to see God's justice and 
mercy in this w'ay. And, if poor George had lived to witness the 
fate of our only cliild, it would surely have broken his heart; for 
there was nothing, which he more thoroughly detested, than intem- 
perance. lie ot'icn told luu, li' he slior.id be taken away, before 
vtxL. T. 14 


158 A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW, 


Jemmy grew up, and if the lad should be inclined to the sea, to 
warn him to avoid, in every port, a drunken, sailor landlord, as ne 
would shun the gates of hell and the chambers of death. These 
were the last words, that poor George ever said to me, the hour tliat 
he left me, to go his last voyage.” — Poor Mary put her handker- 
chief to her eyes ; and little Arthur got off his father’s knee, and 
took his position by her side. 

“ At that time,” continued she, “ Jemmy was about two years 
and a half old ; and he was a great omfort to me then. Many a 
stormy night I have rocked the child m his cradle, and sent up my 
poor prayers to the mariner's God, fcr my sailor boy. — My hus- 
band was to be gone about eighteen months. Ten of them had 
worn wearily away, and I had received no information, excepting 
hat the ship had arrived out, and that all hands were w'ell. About 
a month from that time, old Bob Lazell brought me a letter from 
George, and lightened my heart of its anxious burthen. He was 
well and happy ; and, in the course of six or eiglit weeks, the ship 
was to sail, on the return voyage. In the wildness of my joy, 1 
read the letter to little Jemmy, who had not yet learnt his letters. — 
Seventeen months had gone by. — Early one Sabbath morning, a 
neighbor came in to inform me, that my husband had returned, 
and that the Ajax was standing up the harbor. I left my little boy 
in charge of this kind friend, and ran to borrow a spy-glass ; — it 
was so ; my husband had informed me before of the ship’s signals ; 
and I distinguished the white ball in the blue flag at the fore. I ran 
hastily home and put on my cloak and bonnet ; for, though they 
laughed at me a little for my eagerness, I was not ashamed, after 
such a separation, to meet my dear husband, half way at least. I 
soon saw the boat pulling for the wharf. It contained but half a 
dozen of the crew. I thought I saw my husband ; — but I was mis- 
taken ; — I could not see clearly, for my eyes were so filled with 
tears of joy. In a few minutes, they came upon the wharf. The first 
man was our neighbor, John Weston. I shook hands with him ; — 
he seemed desirous of avoiding me. — ‘ How is George?’ said I. — 
His lip quivered; — he could not reply. — ‘Oh, my God!’ I 
exclaimed, and my next conscious moment was upon my bed, with 
a few kind friends around me. 

“ I soon learned that my poor George had been washed overboard 
in a gale, and was lost. Grievous as it was to learn these bitter 
tidings, I can now say, from the bottom of a broken heart, that it 
is happiness to think of a dear husband, who died in the discharge 
of his duty and lies beside some coral rock, with the sea-weed for 
his winding sheet ; while it is miHery to turn my thoughts upon my 
poor Jehamy, who lies in the dninkard’S jjnr&lviB. 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR'S WIDOW. 


159 


The neighbors were very kind to me ; and, when John Weston 
brought my poor George’s sea-chest from the ship, he cried over it, 
like a child. They were always great cronies, from their cradles ; 
and John’s wife and myself were frequently together, solacing our 
lonely hours, by talking of our kind husbands. She opened the 
chest for me ; — I had not the heart for it ; — and, when she took 
out the toys and keepsakes, which my husband was biLiging home 
for Jemmy and me, she wept over them, alrr.ost as freely as I did 
myself. 

“ In addition to this great affliction, I had, from that time, a large 
share of bodily sickness. My little boy, in his youth, was a real 
blessing ; and, as he grew up, there never was a more kind-hearted 
or dutiful child. — My father, poor and humble as his condition was, 
had always been fond of reading. He had once been a teacher in 
the village school ; and he had taken great pains to instruct me, in 
reading, writing, and ciphering. This was of great use to me, as 
it enabled me to- teach little Jemmy, at least as much of these thingSL 
as I knew myself. He took readily to his learning. When he was 
eight years old, I sent him to the town school. His spirits were 
very great, and his temper was affectionate and confiding. I soon 
perceived that he was in danger, frenn the example of bad boys. At 
i«n, I bound him out, as an apprentice, to a block and pump maker, 
A Mr. Stetson. He was an excellent man, but Jemmy thought he 
was too strict, in his religious notions ; and I thought so too, at that 
time ; though it is likely enough I was wrong. Mr. Stetson com- 
plained, and sometimes severely, as I thought at the time, if Jemmy 
was ever absent from church or family prayers. At seventeen he 
became entirely dissatisfied, and bent upon going to sea. Against 
this I struggled, with all my might, for a long time. Finally, how- 
ever, though he had promised not to go without my permission, yet 
as it was plain, that his heart was deeply engaged in the plan ; and 
as he was constantly telling me of one and another young man, Avho 
had gone to sea, and were making their way in the world, I gave 
my consent, though with many tears. My poor boy obtained such 
a voyage as gave me reason to expect his return in about a year. 
Mr. Stetson did not object to the proposal : he told me, tliat ho 
tlnught James was an amiable and capable young man ; but, as he 
ilisliked his business, it might, perhaps, be as well for him to change 
it for some other. I have no doubt, that he gave my poor boy 
excellent advice, the night before he sailed ; but James never liked 
Mr. Stetson, and, when I asked him what his old master had said 
to him, he only replied, that he had preached him a long sermon. 

“ I fitted him for sea ia the best manner I could ; and put every 


160 A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 


little thing, that I thought would be useful to him, in the sea-chest 
that had been his poor father’s.” 

“Mary,” said Mrs. Selden, “did you put a Bible into it?” — 
Mary Morrison sobbed bitterly. — “ No, ma’am,” said she, “ and I 
have thought of it since, a thousand times. Not more than an hour 
after the ship had sailed, Mr. Stetson came over to our house, with 
a Bible in his hand, and told me that he had given it to James, the 
night before, but that he had forgotten to take it away. James was 
always honorable, and would not have done a mean action for his 
right hand, I am sure ; but I am afraid he did not read his Bible, 
60 much as some other boys.” — “Well, Mary,” said Mrs. Selden, 
“ I did not mean to interrupt you in your story.” 

“I hope,” continued the poor woman, “that God will forgive 
me, if I omitted to instruct poor Jemmy, in those great truths, and 
to rely upon those holy promises, which have since comforted my 
poor heart, in many a sorrowful hour. My own parents, though 
they were generally kind to all their children, were not strict at all, 
in relation to the observance of the Sabbath. The Bible was sel- 
dom read in our family ; and the first time that I ever listened to 
family prayer, was in the house of good old Madam Burwell, to 
whom I was bound out by the overseers. During my stay with her, 
the Scriptures were read, morning and evening. My husband was 
not much given to such things ; and I was so happy in my marriage, 
that 1 fear I did not think, as deeply and as gratefully as I ought, 
that it was the Lord, who gave^ until I was taught to know, in my 
days and nights of bitterness, that it was the Lord, who taketh away. 
I had brought up my boy to be strictly honest in his dealings, to spurn 
a mean action, to bear his misfortunes like a man, to be strictly 
moral in all his conduct, and, especially, to avoid everything that 
might lead him into intemperate habits. — After the last of my great 
misfortunes, my old mistress. Madam Burwell, who, shortly after 
my marriage, had moved back into her native village, came down 
on purpose to see me. She remained a week in the city, and came 
daily to visit me. She taught me once more to open my Bible ; and 
she prayed with me, till my heart was greatly relieved. ‘ Poor child,’ 
the good old lady used to say, ‘ one tells you that time will bring 
relief, and another bids you bear your calamities with fortitude, and 
a third advises you to go into the world, and forget them lliere. 
Miserable comforters are they all. The help of man is a poor 
broken reed : there is no help but this one,’ said the old lady, hold- 
ing the Bible before me. ‘ 1 have been young., and now am old; yet 
have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. ^ 
Upon the second visit that tliis excellent old lady made to my hum- 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 161 

ble dwelling-, after I had buried my poor Jemmy, she found me try- 
ing to read my Bible ; but probably my countenance was full of 
anxiety, and showed her the inward workings of a restless soul. 
‘ Poor child,’ said she again, ‘ your spirit is fluttering about, like the 
weaiy dove over the yet unsettled waters ; let me find a resting-place 
lor you,’ said she, as she took the book into her own hands. She 
turned over the leaves, like any minister, and read to me for an hour 
or more. It seemed as though God had softened the furrows of my 
iiard heart, to receive the seed. From that hour, my burthen has 
beeii greatly lightened. ‘ Go daily to this well,’ said my kind 
friend, ‘ for the waters of comfort. Bethesda’s well is never dry.’ 
Fioi.i that tiruo, I have never ceased to read my Bible, and I rejoice 
that my Redeemer liveth. How I wish,” said Mary Morrison, as 
she sobbed aloud, “that I had led my poor Jemmy to the same 
fountain, when he was young!” 

“ Don’t cry any more, Mary,” said little Arthur, as he kissed 
her hand. — “I am afraid, that we have caused you too much pain 
already, my poor woman,” said Mr. Selden, upon whom the story 
had evidently produced a deep impression. — “ God is just, though 
he is merciful, sir,” replied Mary Morrison, “and we none of us 
suffer more than we deserve. Perhaps I have trespassed on your 
patience.” — “ Oh no, Mary,” said Arthur, “ it makes me cry, but 
I should like to hear it again, I am sure I should.” 

“My boy,” continued Mary, “instead of one, had been gone full 
three years, during which I received only two letters ; though he told 
me, upon his final return, that he had written several, which never 
came to hand. In the first, which I received about seven months after 
his departure, he sent me an order on the owners, for a portion of 
his wages. About three years after he went to sea, I heard a 
report, that he had left the merchant service, and shipped on board 
a British man-of-war. This news gave me a great deal of sorrow. 
John Weston, who, during this period, had been several voyages to 
different parts of the world, had never met my son, though, after 
careful inquiry, he occasionally heard of him in different ports. 
Five years and two months had passed away, and I thought I should 
never see Jemmy again. But the neighbors kept up my spirits, 
and made me hope that he might yet return, and be a comfort to me 
for the rest of my days. — One day, as I sat knitting alone, the door 
opened, and who should come in but Jemmy himself! At the first 
glance, I did not know him ; but the moment he spoke, I knew 
him by his voice. He had let his hair and whiskers grow very 
long ; but I should have known him for all that. ‘ Dear Jemmy,’ 
Baid I, as 1 threw my arms about his neck, ‘ what has been the 
VOL. I. 14* 


162 


A. WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 


matter with you'’ — He could scarcely reply ; — even then, though 
it was early in the day, he was under the influence of liquor. His 
breath was strong of brandy. — I looked upon the face of my poor 
lad, and I saw how it was. He was then only two-and-twenty, and 
he seemed forty years, at least. I was greatly shocked, as you may 
suppose, to find, in one, who, as I thought, would have prov(;d the 
staff of my old age, such a poor, broken reed. It would have soothed 
my spirits, to have thought that his intoxication was accidental, or 
that it had been produced by a little excess, upon his first arrival ; but 
everything about this poor misguided boy told too plainly the story 
of his evil habit. There was never a clearer skin, when he went 
away ; it was my delight to look upon his ruddy cheek. His color 
was all gone, and there was a sickly paleness in its stead. He had 
the stoop of an old man ; and the bright eye of my poor boy, that 
used to look upon me so fondly, was dreadfully bloodshot and 
sunken. — It was an awful change. Bad as it was, I still felt that 
the poor lad was my own child. He was too much under the influ- 
ence of liquor, to give any clear answers to my inquiries. I helped 
him on to the bed. ‘ My dear boy,’ said I, ‘ I will make you a dish 
of tea, and may be you ’ll feel better.’ — ‘ No, mother,’ he replied, 
in a broken voice, ‘give me a little rum.’ — ‘Oh my God,’ I ex- 
claimed, ‘ have I been waiting five wearisome years, and only for 
this !’ — This impatient exclamation, which I uttered aloud, seemed 
to rouse him from his lethargy. He raised himself half way upon 
his bed. — ‘ Mother,’ he exclaimed, in the same hollow and feeble 
tone, ‘ don’t fret about it now. It can’t be helped. I ’m a poor 
dog. I ’ve just come home to die : and you may speak for the 
coffin as soon as you ’re a mind to.’ — I sat down, and buried my 
face in my hands, and wept, for half an hour, in perfect silence. 
When I raised my eyes he was sound asleep. The next day he 
was seized with a raging fever. The doctor said he had caught a 
violent cold, but that intemperance had ruined his constitution ; and 
that he had, at that time, evident marks of consumption. He was 
delirious during the fever, and raved a great deal about drunken 
landlords, that had cheated him, and broken his poor mother’s heart. 
After the fever left him, he fell into a consumption, which rapidly 
w asted him away. On the fifty-ninth day after his return, I closed 
the eyes of my poor Jemmy ; and the next day I laid him and all 
iny broken hopes, for this world, in the silent grave. I cut away a 
single lock of his long dark hair, and of all that I loved so dearly, 
this alone is left to me now.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Selden were deeply affected by the story of poor ' 
Jemmy. “Oh, dear papa,” cried little Arthur, “ you won't drink 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THE SAILOR'S WIDOW. 163 


any more brandy, will you?” — “Hush, my dear,” said Mrs. Sel 
den. — “I am not displeased with you, my son,” said Mr. Selden 
“ and I have been greatly interested in your story, Mary Morrison. 
My little boy, who had heard it before, referred to it, this morning, 
in a manner, which offended me for an instant only ; but I trust, by 
Heaven’s blessing, it may profit me for the rest of my life. The 
suggestion of a child may sometimes prove a word in season. 
Come hither, Arthur,” continued Mr. Selden. “We none of us 
can tell how much we all owe you, for making us acquainted with 
the story of poor Jemmy ; and I shall not fail to comply with your 
request to drink no more brandy. * To-morrow, you shall go with 
me, my son, and see your father sign the pledge of the Temperance 
Society.” A smile of happiness lighted up the countenances of liis 
children, while Mrs. Selden could not restrain her tears of joy. — 
The bell rang for nine ; and Mary Morrison took her leave, receiving 
the kindest assurances of continued regard, from Mr. Selden and 
his lady. ' 

“ Dear papa,” said little Arthur, “ I have another favor to ask. 
I wish, before we go to bed, you would let sister Nancy read the 
verses, that she wrote about Jemmy.” — “With all my heart,” 
said Mr. Selden. — Nancy, after a little reluctance, was prevailed 
on to comply, and produced the following lines ; which, at least her 
fond father and mother agreed, were prettily written and prettily 
«%ad 


THE SAILOR’S WIDOW. 

My heart, ah, how vainly it tries 

From the grief, that pursues it, to flee ! 

By the side of some coral he lies ; 

His shroud the green weed of the sea I 

The last parting words, that he gave, 

Are deep in my bosom enshrined ; 

“ 'T is for thee that I plough the dark ware, 
And the cherub I leave thee behind.” 

To win the boy’s bread and my own, 

He toiled o’er the merciless wave 

But I now am a widow alone. 

And he lies in a watery grave. 

How oft have I rocked thee to sleep. 

And wished, pretty babe but for thee, 

I could lay myself down in the deep, 

Where thy father lies low, in the seal 


164 k WORD IN SEASON, OR THB SAILOR’S WIDOW. 

No daylight so bright as thy smile, 

No sound like thy voice to my ears. 

How oft have I turned from my toil, 

And bathed thee with kisses and tears I 

Single-handed, I labored for thee. 

And I watched thee, by night and by day: 

Thy heart was inclined to the sea. 

And, in sorrow, I sent thee away. 

Like ages the weary months passed ; 

But my heart would oft cheeringly say. 

He shall soothe and support thee at last. 

When thy bonny brown hair shall be gray.— • 

How deceitful our hopes, and how fair I 
Poor Jemmy came late from the sea ; 

Gray then was my bonny brown hair ; 

But no soother was Jemmy to me. 

, The riot of fire, in his veins, 

Destroyed the poor boy in his bloom : 

I shrouded his wretched remains. 

And buried my hopes in the tomb. 

The poison, which killed him, defies 
The power of a mortal to save ; 

In his locks of bright auburn he lies, 

In the wretched inebriate’s grave. 

This bonny brown lock that I wear, 

I cut from his motionless brow ; 

Such then was my poor Jemmy’s hair, 

And it ’s all, that is left to me now. 

How deceitful our hopes, and how fair ! 

Poor Jemmy came late from the sea ; 

Gray then was my bonny brown hair ; 

But no soother was Jemmy to me. 

“ Well done, Nancy,” said her father, as he brushed away the 
tears from his eyes, “ you shall be the poet laureate of one family 
at least ” — After a short pause, Mr. Selden raised his eyes, and 
beheld on the face of his amiable wife an expression of such perfect 
happiness, as touched him to the heart. The children had retired. 
Arthur, however, had previously descended to the kitchen, and 
whispered the news to old Robert, the coachman. “ The Lord be 
thanked,” said this faithful old domestic, who had long been a tem- 
perance man ; “ the Lord be thanked,” said he with evident satis- 
faction; “upon the cold-water plan, what a kind-hearted, even 
tempered man, mv ffood master will he !” 


A WORD IN SEASON, OR THR SAILOR’S WIDOW. 165 


Susan,” said Mr. Selden, as they were about to retire, “ this, 
1 trust, will long be remembered as a most interesting, and profitable 
Sabbath to us all.” — “Oh, my dear husband,” said this truly 
excellent lady, “ how it fills my heart, to overflowing, with gratitude 
to God, that I am permitted to hear such words as these from my 
'^earest earthly friend ! As good old Mrs. Burwell said to poor 
. lary Morrison, the spirit is too apt to flutter about, like the weary 
ove over the yet unsettled waters : let us find it a safe resting-place 
n the Rock of Ages.” “ Even so,” replied Mr. Selden; and, 
pening the Bible, he read a portion of the holy volume. 

“ Pray, master Arthur,” said Mr. Selden, the next morning, 
* why are you dressed up so trimly to-day, in your bettermost suiti” 
‘ Because, dear papa,” he replied, “ we are going this morning, 
you know, to good Deacon Palfrey’s, who keeps the temperance 
book, to sign the pledge.” — “ We !” said Mr. Selden. — “ To be 
sure, dear papa ; and mamma and Nancy are going too. Old Robert, 
who signed it long ago, says that children sign it, who are only six 
years old, and I am seven.” “ Well, well,” said his father with a 
smile, “ you have made up a party ; and, I trust, it will be a parly 
of pleasure and profit to us all.” 

The Seldens signed the pledge that day ; and thereby took away, 
most effectually, from their anti-temperance neighbors, that very 
common and most miserable argument, the example of opulence and 
fashion. 

This family is now one of the most pious and happy in the county. 
We cannot omit to mention, that, on that very morning, old Robert 
came into the parlor with a peculiar smile, bringing in a new family 
Bible. “ Mr. Selden told me, ma’am,”- said he, “ to remove the 
liquor stand from the sideboard, and put the good book in its place.” 

Not a sparrow falls to the ground, without the notice of that God, 
whose all-observing eye is over all his works. If praise hath been 
perfected out of the mouths of babes, let us not marvel, that from 
the same source may proceed a word in season ; which may provn 
the blessed harbinger of temporal and eternal joy. 






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SEED TIME AND HAEVEST. 


lit this last number of the second volume of our Temperance Tales, vre offer you a short and simpls 
nanative, which produced a very deep and lasting^ impression upon a group of three or fourrf 
as it was related, certainly in the most natural and touching manner, by the son of a drunken father, 
We have added paragraph to paragraph, with a growing conviction of our utter inability to imiuts 
the voice of nature. 

As the story is a brief one, it shall not be disfigured by a tedious preface. If, by God’s blessing, il 
shall be the means of dispelling wretchedness from some humble dwelling, — if it shall cause a sin - 
gle drunkard to reform, and bless the Lord, who givelh Seed Time and Harvest, we shall never regret 
that we have bestowed our labors in the field. 


It must be nearly midnight, thought I, as I walked rapidly along. 
I had travelled full fourteen miles. The rain descended in torrents ; 
and, finding ready admittance, at a farmer’s barn, I climbed upon a 
hay-mow, and threw myself down, thoroughly wet, weary, and 
sleepless. — What an awful visitor it is, thought I, at the poor cot- 
tager’s fireside! How forcible and true are the words of Holy 
Writ! If wine be “a mocker,” in the castles of the rich, — 
among the habitations of the poor, “strong drink is raging.” — 
There was I, at the age of sixteen, turning my back upon my birth- 
place, upon my home, upon a mother and sister, whom I tenderly 
loved. — As the recollection of all they had endured already, and 
the anticipation of their future suflferings rushed upon my mind, I 
had almost resolved to return : but, alas ! what could I oppose to the 
ungovernable fury of an unkind husband and an apostate father ! 
No, thought I, I will fly from that, which I can neither prevent nor 
endure. I will seek my bread among strangers. By the kind prov- 
idence of Him, who hath promised to be the Father of the father- 
less, and such, in reality, I am, I may win, by honest industry, the 
means of bringing comfort to her, who bore me, when my father’s 
intemperance and prodigality shall have made havoc of all that 
remains ; and when the last acre of the homestead shall have passed 
into the rum-seller’s hands. My resolution was fixed. Sleep was 
gathering over my eyelids. I got upon my knees to commit my- 
stlf to God in prayer. I could scarcely give form to my scattered 
thoughts ; — it seemed, under the condition of high excitement, in 
which I then was, that my father was before me, enraged at my 
departure, and demanding who had taught me to pray. It was he 
himself, who first set me upon my knees, and placed my infant 


168 


SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 


hands U)gether, and put right words into my mouth, and bade me 
ask of God to put right thoughts into my heart. How oftei had he 
led his little household in morning and evening prayer ! How 
often, as we walked to God’s house, in company together, had he 
led the way ! How constantly, in our daily labors, had he conducted 
our thoughts to serious contemplation, by some sensible and devout 
allusion to those employments, in which we were engaged ! Lost 
and gone, degraded and changed he -was ; but he had been once a 
kind father, a tender husband, a generous neighbor, a faithful friend, 
a pious and a professing Christian. 

Rum and ruin, hand in hand, had entered our dwelling together. 
The peace of our fireside was gone. The rum-seller had laid my 
poor, misguided father, under the bonds of an unrelenting and fatal 
appetite ; he had won away the little children’s bread ; and converted 
our once- happy home into an earthly hell, whose only portal of exit 
was the silent grave. 

It was very evident to me, that we were going to destruction. 
My father’s interest in the welfare of us all was at an end. Debts 
were accumulating fast. His farm was heavily mortgaged. His 
habits, long before, had compelled the church to exclude him from 
the communion ; and the severest abuse was the certain conse- 
quence, whenever my poor, old mother went singly to the table of 
her Lord. I could have borne my father’s harsh treatment of myself 
and of my poor sister Rachel ; but he returned home, at last, con- 
stantly intoxicated ; and, when opposed in anything, proceeded to 
swear, and rave, and break the furniture, and abuse my old mother, 
who bore it all, with the patience of a saint ; — I made up my mind, 
that I could stand it no longer. 

I waited cautiously, for a favorable opportunity, and asked my 
father’s permission to go to sea. He flew into a terrible rage. The 
next morning he seemed to be in a better frame of mind, and, as I 
was chopping wood before the door, he asked me, of his own accord, 
what had induced me to wish to leave home, and go to sea. I hes- 
itated, for some time ; but, as he urged me to speak out, and, at the 
same time, appeared to be much calmer than usual; — “ Father,” 
said I, “it kills me to see you and hear you talk and act so badly to 
poor mother.” — He flew into a greater rage than before, and bade 
me never open my mouth upon the subject again. 

Thus matters continued to progress from bad to worse. Love is 
said not to stand still. This saying is manifestly true in regard to 
tlui love of strong drink. 

Our domestic misery continued to increase, from week to week. 
There were intervals, in which my father was more like himself, 


SEED TIME AND HARVEl^. 


169 


more like the good, kind parent and husband, whose outgoings, in 
tlie morning, had been a source of affectionate regret, and whose 
incomings, at night, had been a subject of joy to the wife of his bosom 
and the children of his loins. I have seen the faint smile of satis- 
faction brighten upon my poor mother’s pale features, upon such 
occasions ; and I have marked the sigh, half suppressed, which told 
the secret of an agonized spirit, and which seemed to say, How pre- 
cious, how brief is this little interval of joy ! 

It was indeed like the parting sunbeam, the last, lingering light 
of a summer day, which plays upon the cold grave, where the treas- 
ure and the heart are destined to slumber together. 

In such an example of domestic wretchedness as ours, the opera- 
tion of cause and effect was perfectly intelligible. Rum excited into 
action all that was contentious, in the nature of my parent. A keen 
perception of his own blameworthiness, notwithstanding the stupe- 
fying tendency of the liquor he had drunken, increased the irritabil- 
ity of his temper. A word, look, or gesture, from any member of 
the household, which indicated the slightest knowledge of his 
unhappy condition, when he returned, at night, under the influence 
of strong drink, was surely interpreted into an intentional affront. 
He would often anticipate reproof ; and, as it were, repay it before- 
hand, by the harshness of his manners. 

The habit of drinking, which is invariably the prolific mother of 
sin and sloth, wretchedness and rags, is sure to be maintained and 
kept alive, by the beggarly progeny, to which it has given birth. 
Whenever my unhappy father was dunned for the interest on his 
mortgage, or any other debt, which, at last, he had no means to 
pay, he was in the habit, almost mechanically, as soon as the cred- 
itor had departed, of turning to the jug of rum, for relief and 
oblivion. 

The gloom and ill-nature, which had hitherto been occasionally 
interspersed with exhibitions of kindlier feelings to us all, appeared to 
have become unvarying and fixed. There was less and less, from 
week to week, of an April sky. All was chill and drear, like Novem- 
ber. One evening, my mother and sister had been busily engaged, as 
usual, in such housewifery, as might best contribute to keep our poor 
wreck of a domicil together, as long as possible. I had learned to write 
a fair hand, and was engaged in copying some papers, for our squire, 
who paid me, by the sheet. It had gotten to be nearly ten o'clock. 
My mother put on her spectacles, and, opening the Bible, began to 
road. Rachel and I sat by the fire, listening to the words of truth 
aiii soberness. My poor mother had fallen upon a ponion of Scrip- 
ture. which, from its applicability to her own situation and that of hei 

▼OL. I. 15 


170 


SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 


children, had affected her feelings, and the tears were in her ejea,, 
when the loud tramp upon the door-step announced the return of 
my father. His whole appearance was unusually ominous of evil. 
My mother stirred the fire, and I placed him a chair, which he 
kicked over, and threw himself down upon the bed, and called for 
jupper. Mother told him, in a gentle manner, that there was noth- 
ing in the house but some bread. He told her she lied, and swore 
terribly. She sat silently by the fire ; — I looked up in her face : — 
she wept, but said nothing. “Don't cry so, dear mothei,” said 
Rachel. — “Wife,” said my father, sitting upon the edge of the 
bed, “ -when will you leave off crying?” — “ Whenever you leave 
off drinking, husband,” replied my mother in the kindest manner 
My father sprang up, in a hurricane of wrath, and with a dreadful 
oath, hurled a chair, at my mother s head. I sprang forward, and 
received its full force upon my shoulder. Rachel and my mother 
fled to a neighbor's house, and my father struck me several blows 
with his feet and fists ; and, as I made my escape, I left him dash- 
ing the furniture to pieces, with the fury of a madman. — I rushed 
forth to seek shelter amid the driving storm — from the tempest of 
a drunken father's wrath. I went, as speedily as possible, to the 
squire’s house, and begged him to take compassion on my poor 
mother and sister. Having received his promise, that he would go 
instantly over to our cottage, I took the resolution, which I have 
already stated. 

After I had passed a comfortless night in the farmer’s bam, 1 
pushed forward to the city. I had a trifle of change in my pocket ; 
I bought a biscuit of a travelling baker, and 1 had no relish for any 
other than the beverage of God’s appointment, which was near at 
hand. When I reached the city, 1 directed my course to one of the 
wharves, and found no difficulty, as I was unusuaUy stout for my 
years, in obtaining a voyage, as a green hand, in a ship bound to 
China. Three days passed, before the ship sailed. I wrote to my 
mother and sister, bidding them keep up their spirits, and put their 
trust, as 1 did, in the God of the widow and the fatherless, 'for such, 
and even worse, was our condition. I asked them to say to father, 
when he was sober, that, although I scarcely expected to see him 
Lgain in this world, I freely forgave all his ill-treatment to myself. 

1 worked hard and strove to please the captain. I soon found 
that ploughing the sea was a very different affair from ploughing 
the land. I had a good constitution, and a cheerful temper. 1 had 
been taught, at all times, by my dear mother, and by my poor, 
unhappy father also, till he became intemperate, to put the fullest 
•onfldence in the promises of God. When we arrived in China, 


SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 


171 


though we had shipped out and home, the voyage leas broken up, 
and the ship sold. The captain settled with the crew to their entire 
satisfaction ; and I shall always be grateful for his kindness to me. 
He got me a voyage to England. I laid out my wages, hy his 
advice. I could not have followed a shrewder counsellor. He was 
bom and bred, so far as regards his land learning, in one of the most 
thrifty villages in Connecticut. We had a most boisterous voyage 
from Canton to Liverpool ; but, whenever I pulled a rope, I always 
pulled a little harder for the sake of my old mother and sister 
Rachel. — I had saved every penny of my wages, that I could lay 
by, and my little investment in Canton turned out far beyond my 
expectations. I do not think I was avaricious ; but I felt it to he 
my duty, under existing circumstances, to save my earnings for my 
honored mother. Nevertheless, I felt myself authorized to indulge 
in one luxury at least ; so, upon my arrival in Liverpool, I went 
into the first bookstore and bought me a pocket Bible. 

Five years had now gone by, in which I had sailed many thou- 
sands of miles, and visited various corners of the world. During 
this period, I had gotten together a larger sum of money, than 1 ever 
expected to possess at twenty-one ; besides having made several 
remittances to the squire, for my old mother’s use, to whom I wrote 
upon every convenient opportunity. They all came to hand, as I 
afterward learned, saving one, in gold, which went to bottom, with 
poor Tom Johnson, w'ho was lost at sea. If I was fortunate enough 
to save my hard earnings, just let me say, for the advantage of every 
brother sailor, that there are four things, which I never did ; I never 
suffered a drop of grog to go down my hatches, blow high or blow 
low ; I never rolled a stinking weed, like a sweet morsel, under my 
tongue ; I never crossed hands with a drunken landlord ; and I never 
bore away from a poor fellow, whose hammock was harder than my 
own. 

My five years’ absence from home might have extended to fifty, 
but for many recollections of my mother and sister, which became 
more f(trcible, from day to day. My remembrance of my father 
was of the most painful character : the very recollection of his ten- 
derness, in the days of my childhood, which often brought tears into 
my eyes, served only to render the image of a cruel and degraded 
parent more frightful and revolting. 

I had shipped, about this time, on board the Swiftsure, from Lon- 
don to Oporto. One afternoon, two or three of us, a day or two 
before the ship sailed, had strolled over to the south side of the 
Thames, to look at the king’s dockyards at Deptford. As I was 
rambling among the docks, I received a smart slap on the shoulder 


172 


SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 


turning suddenly round, whom should T see but old Tom folin 
eon, an honest fellow as ever broke bread or wore a tarpaulin ! He 
was born in our village ; had followed tlie sea for neatly forty years ; 
and. once in the course of three or four, he contrived to find his w'ay 
to the old spot, and spend a few days in the valley where he waa 
Dorn. — “ Why, Bob,” said he, “ I ’m heartily glad to see you, my 
lad ; so you ’ve taken leg bail of the old folks, and turned rover, in 
good earnest, ey?” — I told him, I hoped he didn't think I 'd left 
my old mother to shirk for herself, in her old age. — “ Not a jot,” 
replied the old sailor ; “ Squire Seely has told me the whole story, 
ind says he has put the sweat of your brow, more than on^e or twice 
either, into the old lady’s hand, and made her old weather beaten 
heart leap for joy, to hear you was so thoughtful a lad. I saw your 
mother about a year ago, and your sister Rachel.” — I shook old 
Tom Johnson, by the hand ; I could not restrain my feelings, for 
this was the first news I had received from home, for more than five 
years. — “ Come, Bob,” said the old fellow, “ don’t be for opening 
your scuppers and making crooked faces ; though it blows hard 
enough now, it may get to be calm weather after all.” — “ How is 
my father doing now?” I inquired. — “ Why, as to that,” answered 
Tom Johnson, “ it ’s about a twelvemonth since 1 was there. I told 
the old lady I might cross your hawse in some part of the vyorld. 
She has a rough time of it, my boy. The old man holds on to 
mischief, like a heavy kedge in a clay bottom. The cold-water folks 
began, about a year ago, to scatter their seed in the village, in the 
shape of tracts, and tales, and newspapers. Some of them were 
thrown at your father’s door, and at the door of old Deacon Flint, 
the distiller. There, as you may suppose, the seed fell in stony 
places. Your father was in a great rage, and swore he *d shoot the 
first person, that left another of their rascally publications before his 
door. I ’m afraid it will be a long while, my lad, before the tem- 
perance folks get the weather gage of the rum-sellers, and rum- 
drinkers in our village. They have had a miserable seed time, and 
the Devil and Deacon Flint, I am afraid, will have the best -of the 
harvest.” 

As Tom Johnson was to sail, in about a week, for the United 
States, I sent by him a few lines of comfort and a small remittance 
f.)r my mother. As I have already stated,. they never reached the 
place of their destination. The Oranoke, of w hich this poor fellow 
was first mate, foundered at sea, and the whole crew perished. 

After our arrival at Oporto, the crew of the Swiftsure were dis- 
charged ; and, finding a favorable chance, I shipped for Philadelphia, 
where we arrived, after an extremely short and prosperous passage 


SEED TIME AND HARVEsT. 


17 > 


' — I directed my coarse, once more, towards my native hamlet. My 
feelings were of the most painful and perplexing character. In 
accumulated years, and even in the little property, which I had 
gathered, I felt conscious of something like a power and influence ; 
which, by God’s grace, I hoped to exert for the protection of my 
mother. Yet, when I recollected the ungovernable violence of my 
father’s temper, under the stimulus of liquor, I almost despaired of 
success. At any rate, I could behold the face of her, who bore me, 
and receive her blessing once more before she died. 

Having sent my luggage forward, I performed a considerable part 
of my journey on foot. I had arrived in the village, adjoining our 
own. I paused, for an instant, to look at the barn, in which, five 
years before, I had passed a most miserable ni^ht. It brough 
before me, with a painful precision, the melancholy record of the 
past. Every mile of my lessening way abated something of that 
confidence, which ^I had occasionally cherished, of being the instru- 
ment, under God, of bringing happiness again into the dwelling of 
my wretched parents. 

I had arrived within two miles of the little river, which forms one 
of the boundary lines of our village. I was passing a little grocery, 
or tipplery, and, standing at the door, I recognized the very indi- 
vidual, who formerly kept the grog-shop in our town, and from 
whom my father had purchased his rum, for many years. Although 
it was already gray twilight, I knew him immediately ; and, how- 
ever painful to approach a person, in whom I could not fail to behold 
the destroyer of my father, I could not repress my earnest desire to 
learn something of my family. I accosted him, and he remembered 
me at once. His manners were those of a surly and dissatisfied man. 
In reply to my inquiries, he informed me, that my parents and my 
sister were alive, and added, with a sneer, that my father had set 
up for a cold-water man ; “ but,” continued he, with a forced and 
spiteful laugh, “ it will take him all his days, I guess, to put off the 
old man : they that have gotten the relish of my rum, are not so 
very apt to change it for cold water.” — Upon further inquiry, I 
tscertained, that there had been a temperance movement in our 
village ; and that the seed, as poor Tom Johnson said, had been 
scattered there, with an unsparing hand. I also gathered the infor- 
mation from this rum-seller, that the selectmen had refused to appro- 
bate; any applicant for a license to sell ardent spirit in our village ; 
and that he, himself, had therefore been obliged to quit his old stand, 
and take the new one, which he now occupied. 

I turned from the dram-seller’s door and proceeded on my way. 
It was quite dark ; but the road was familiar to my feet. It afforded 

VOL. I. 15 * 


174 


SEED TIME AND HARVEST. 


me unspeakable pleasure to learn, that my mother and sister were 
alive and well. But I was exceedingly perplexed, by the rum- 
seller's statement in relation to my father. Can it be possible, 
thought I, that he has become a cold-water man ? How true is the 
rum-seller’s remark, that few, who have gotten a taste of his rum, 
are apt to change it for cold water! For more than twelve years, 
my father had been an intemperate man ; and, even if he had aban- 
doned ardent spirit, for a time, how little reliance could be placed 
upon a drunkard's reformation ! Besides, Tom Johnson had ex- 
pressly stated, that my father had been exceedingly hostile to the 
temperance mcyement, from the beginning. 

With these and similar reflections, my mind continued to be 
occupied, until I entered our village. It was about half past nine, 
when I came within a few rods of the old cottage. A light was 
still gleaming forth from the window. I drew slowdy and silently 
near to the door. — I thought I heard a voice. I listened atten- 
tively. — It was my father’s. — My mother appeared not to reply : 
such was her constant habit, whenever, under the influence of liquor, 
he gave a loose rein to his tongue, and indulged in unkind and abu- 
sive language. — I drew still nearer — and, passing softly into the 
entry, I listened more attentively, at the inner door. — Can it be 
possible! thought I. — He was engaged in prayer! in fervent and 
pious prayer. — He prayed, with a trembling voice, for the restora- 
tion of an absent son ! — There was a pause. From the movement 
within, it was evident they had risen from their knees. — I gently 
raised the latch, and opened the door. — The father, the mother, the 
brother, the sister, were locked in the anns of one another ! — My 
regenerated old father fell once more upon his knees ; we all fol- 
lowed his example ; and before a word of congratulation had passed 
from one to the other, he poured forth such a touching strain of thanks- 
giving and praise to the Giver of every good and perfect gift, for 
my safe return, as would have melted the heart of the most obdurate, 
ort'ender. It came directly from the heart of a truly penitent sinner, 
and it went straightway to the God of mercy. — I gazed upon iny 
poor old father. It seemed like the moral resurrection of one, 
already dead and buried, in his trespasses and sins. — I glanced rap- 
idly about me : all was peace, all was order ; where all had been 
strife and confusion before. The rum-jug no longer occupied its 
accustomed place upon the table : — the expanded volume of eternal 
life was there in its stead ! 

1 gazed with inexpressible joy, upon the happy faces about me ; 
my father, to all outward appearance, such as he had been in better 
days, sitting in silence, and evidently restraining the emotions of hia 


SEED TIBIE AND HARVEST. 


175 


soul ; poor Rachel upon my knee, her features bathed with happy 
tears ; atid my dear, old mother turnino^ her countenance, full 
gratitude and love, alternately towards Heaven and upon a long gone 
child, returne<l at last. 

Six years have now gone by, since a merciful God softened the 
stubborn soil in my father’s heart. The seed did not fall altogether, 
as Tom Johnson supposed, ujx)n stony places. Some of them have 
sprung up, as in our own highly-favored heritage, and borne fruit a 
hundred fold. Let us thank God, then, who hath enabled us abun- 
dantly to gather the Harvest ; for peace is once more at our fire- 
side ; the wife has regained her husband, and the orphans liave 
found their father. 


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AN miSH HEART, 


My rtapeeted friend, the reeerend chnplain of the Massachusetts State’s Prison «n1 formerly 
chaplain of tlie Slate’s Prison of Auburn, in ihe St;ite of New York, will recognize, in the material 
groundwork of the following tale, an affecting narrative, which, during the past year, be did me the 
favor to communicate. 

The e.ti;graii jn from Ireland to America of annually increasing numbers, extremely needy, and, in 
aecny mm, irinken a-id depraved, has become a subject for grave and fearful rellecl.on, Sb''uld 
this influx ojnlinus, or a sw vears more, in the same ratio of increase, which has existed for n low 
years past ; — should tbis imposing subject continue to be thought unworthy or unsuscepiible of 
legislative provision, and should tLs materials of this oppressive influx continue lo be the same, — 
insteed of an asy|uin, our country may be appropriately styled the common sewer of Ireland. That 
we have here a highly respectable body of Irish citizens, temperate, industrious, and upright, no man 
denies. But '.lie complexion of the mass is very different. A very great majority of those, who ha'e 
been driven from '.heir own shores, by sheer necessity, are addicted notoriously lo the free eiiiployme it 
of spirituous liquors. They quit a country, where whiskey is sold at 6s. 8d, sterling per gallon, rnd 
they find in this land of freedom a substitute in New England rum, at 28 cents per gallon. In t’ sir 
own country a week’s hard labor would scarcely enable them to be drunk for a singleday : — here he 
wages of a single day will enable them to be drunk for tlie remainder of the week. Keceiu exami- 
nations have siifiicienlly developed some of the leadingcauses of that awful pauperism, which exists in 
Ireland. One or two examples may suffice. A single distillery in Clonmel pays annually 60,0001. 
sterling duly to the cfown. The sum received for duty, at a single excise oifice at Waterford, 
averages l,000f. sterling per week. This indeed supports the government, but ciushes the people, 
by taxin?, instead of prohibiting, the means of misery and crime. And where a poor spalpeen can 
neither shake off the habit of intemperance, nor afibrd any longer to support the government, his last 
reluge is the '‘J'raa contree.** 


Innisf ALLEN is 0116 of the most romantic little islands in the world. 
It lies in the midst of Lough Lean — the beautiful Lake of Killar- 
ney. This sheet of water is situated in the County of Kerry and 
Province of Munster, and consists of a lower, middle, and upper 
lake. The waters of the lower lake encircle the island of Innis- ' 
fallen, which contains about eighteen English acres. This island is 
remarkable for the ruins of an ancient religious house, founded by 
St. Finian, the patron saint of these parts, who is better known to 
the Irish however, under the name of Lobbar, the son of Conail. 
But it is more remarkable by far, for the enchanting wildness of iis 
scenery. The lower portion of Lough Lean lies to the north, and 
is about six miles in length ; and the town of Killamey rises upon its 
nort.iern shore. Its northern boundary is a broken line of hill and 
interval, affording, here and there, a delightful prospect of the lake 
and its green islands. The southern shore presents a range of lofty 
mountains, covered with timber of the largest growth. The pro- 
montory of Mucruss, which separates the upper from the lower lake, 
has been called by travellers the land of enchantment. A torrent, 
tumbling and tossing among the dark woods and beetling rocks, 
rushes, with its tribute of never failing waters, to the lake below. 
This is the celebrated O’Sullivan’s cascade ; and in front of the 


178 


AN IRISH HEART. 


cataract, but at such a distance, as to be far from the reach of its 
troubled waters, lies the island of Innisfallen. 

This wild and sequestered island, which Queen Mab herself mijjht 
have been [)roud io claim as the spot of her nativity, was the birth- 
place of a poor Irish girl, wdiose name was Kathleen McCready. 

In another corner of this little island, under the thatched roof of a 
miserable, weather-beaten shantee, dwelt Phelim Mashee, as rough 
an Irishman, as ever mounted a shamrock or swung a shillala. It 
has been observed, by a distinguished writer, that an Irishman is 
any man’s custonier in a row. In a row or out of it, little were the 
odds to Phelim Mashee. He tenanted a scanty acre of as unpio- 
ductive land, as could be found in the County of Kerry, upon a 
rocky declivity, descending to the lake. Here old Phelim literally 
struggled wuth the precipice for bread, or rather, for potatoes, whic.h, 
with the poor Irish, are one and the same thing. If Heaven had not 
blessed him in a particular manner, in his basket and store, he had 
no reason to complain of the deficiency of children. There were 
Thomas, and Phelim, and Winifred, and Thaddy, and Ow'en, and 
Dermot, and Mary, and Tooley, and five or six smaller children, 
w'hom they had not found time or disposition to baptize. These bare- 
legged and white-headed spalpeens might be seen, from morning to 
night, fighting with one another, or dodging among the bushes, or 
fishing upon the borders of the lake. Such were among the more 
respectable of all their occupations. After dark the McCreadies 
kept close watch and ward over their potato patch, and hencoop ; 
the shote w'as in no danger, he was invariably taken in for the night, 
to lodge wuth the family. — There was a feud, of many years’ stand 
ing, between the Mashees and McCreadies. I never could obtain a 
correct account of it ; but I believe it was occasioned by a disrespect- 
ful expression, uttered by David McCready in relation to the ban- 
ditti, who were called White Boys, and who, in former da3s, greatly 
annoyed the counties of Limerick, Cork, and Tipperary, of which 
fraternity, the father of Phelim Mashee had been a distinguished 
member. 

Whatever might have been the origin of this animosity, it was 
exceedingly bitter on the part of Mashee, and prolonged fur many 
years. David and Phelim had agreed to settle it, by a regular fight, 
upon St. Patrick’s day in the morning. But Phelim was altogether 
ton full of the croihur to do himself justice ; and David, if we may 
be allowed to use his own expression, gave him a “ nate leetle leest 
o’ the hammer.” 

From this time, Phelim Mashee made no scruple of saying, that 
David McCready was “ na jintilmariy'’ having taken advantage of 


AN IRISH HEART. 


179 


his Kinlucky condition. Old Phelim sought his revenge, by doing 
McCrcady all the mischief in his power, and, for this object, he did 
not hesitate to instruct his children accordingly. With the assis- 
tance of these urchins, thus faithfully initiated, in the ways of 
wickedness, by an able preceptor, it is not surprising, that, notwith- 
standing their utmost vigilance, the McCreadies, in the course of 
several years, suffered greatly, in their humble possessions. A 
fuiming or domestic utensil, left abroad during the night, would have 
been as certainly transported before morning, as an iron marlinspike 
from on board ship, during a visit from the natives of some of the 
Polynesian Islands. These nocturnal forays were not altogether 
unprofitable to the Mashees. Whenever any of the little freebooters 
brought off an article, which could be readily identified, such as a 
rake or a hoe, it was carefully concealed by old Phelim, till he had 
occasion to go to Killarney, where it was sold or exchanged for 
whiskey. But, when the plunder consisted of the produce of the 
garden, it was thrown into the cellar ; for, as he used to say, “ it 
wud puzzle the like o’ St. Patrick to pick out his own praties ony- 
how.” 

David McCready had not a worse heart than his neighbors ; and 
as for Mary, his wife, there was scarcely a kinder soul in all Mun- 
ster. David, like the great mass of Irishmen in humble life, had 
been brought up to look upon a fight as a frolic. It was this very 
David McCready, who, being a little the worse, or, according to his 
own code of sensations, a little the better for whiskey, knocked 
down a gentleman, in Killarney, without the least provocation ; and, 
being interrogated by the magistrate, as to his motive for such con- 
duct, towards an unoffending man, replied, that “ he thought not a 
bit the worse of the jintilman than he did afore, but that he stud so 
, right an’ fair, that he could not, for the life o’ him, help giving him 
a facer.” But, for all this, David McCready was a kind-hearted 
Irishman. — “Think of it hinny!” said David to his wife, as he 
came in one morning early from his garden, with an angry brow. — 
“ Come till a body what is the matter now McCready?” said she. 
“ Claan gane !” he replied with increasing anger. “ And for pity’s 
sake what ’s happunt McCready ?” said she. — “ Not a man, woman, 
nor child o’ ’em lift,” cried her husband. — “ An who knows what 
is the like o’ that y’ are spaking aboot, McCready? don’t ye be 
kaping a buddy upon the tanters, come, out wid it David.” — “ Tut, 
an can’t ye understand a mon, an that yourself hinny, when he 
spakes s i plain nor the like o’ that ; why the tarnips are claan gane 
I till ye, an its the wark o’ Satan or his lawful attarney, Phelim 
Mashee, bad luck to him.”. In half a dozen minutes, McCready had 


ISO 


AN IRISH HEART. 


shadowed forth as many methods of revenge. He was doubting 
whether to Irate him to a greater bating than he had given him on 
St. Patrick's day in tiie morning, or to give him a good sousing in 
Lough Lean. — “ Whoosh now ! David McCready, is it for you to 
talk sich clislimaclaver as the like o’ that?” said Mary to her hus- 
band, patting him upon the shoulder with a good-natured smile. 
“ Y’ are not sartin, David, that Phelim it was, what sarved ye sich 
a maan thing as that.” “ An for what for is it that y’ are iver sa 
riddy, Mary, to gi’ bail for the ould villin o’ a thaaf as he is, that 
Phelim Mashee? maybe, ye ’ll fancy that all the tarnips have walked 
ower to the ould nagur’s cillar o’ their own frae wull.” “ Wall, 
David McCready, an if Phelim has been guilty of sich maanness, he 
wull ha’ the sin to answer for i’ the dee, and he has his rint to pay 
in this warld, whether or no, an that comes tough enough to a poor 
parson onyhow ; and, as for the tarnips, like enough among sich a 
rigimint o’ childher, there ’s na more nor two or thraa a pace. Now 
jist think o’ it McCready, an we ha’ none to faad an clothe but 
Kathleen.” — “ Bad luck to him !” such were, upon this and most 
other occasions, the last words of McCready, when speaking of 
Phelim Mashee. But, if we may judge from the fact, that David 
never proceeded to any action against his unruly neighbor, in a 
corresponding spirit, we may fairly set them down as words of 
course, for whose utterance the tongue is chiefly responsible, and 
which come not from the heart. Years rolled away : David 
McCready and Phelim Mashee were getting to be grayer, and their 
children were almost men and women. It was about seven years 
before, that David and his wife had become protestants. I never 
understood, that they were as much benefited by the change as 
could have been desired ; but, among the consequences of their 
domestic reformation, a Bible had found its way into the dwelling of 
David McCready ; and Kathleen, who had been taught to read, was 
so frequently found by her father and mother, with the volume in 
her hands, that it went, in the family, by the title of Kathleen's own 
book. As for old Phelim Mashee, he was of no particular religion. 
When he had laid up a good stock of sins he, now and then, went 
over to Killarney, of a Sabbath morning, and got lelaaf by conjis^ 
sing them out o’ the way, as he used to express it, and sealed up 
his soul with a wafer ; and returned, quite invigorated, for the pei- 
petration of new offences. 

The most daring and adroit of all Phelim’s troop of marauders 
was Thaddy, his third son. He was now a very comely lad of 
about seventeen years of age. For some time however, he had 
been remarkably unsuccessful. Old Phelim, who was less able to 


AN IRISH HEART. 


181 


help himself to his neighbor’s goods ‘than in former years, was 
unsparing in his imprecations upon Thaddy, conceiving him to be 
blameworthy, in proportion to his well known talent for all sorts of 
petty thievery, by day and by night. He specially berated him for 
not stealing McCready’s ducks, which were often abroad, on the water 
or the land. Thaddy, having been trained to steal and lie, tried his 
skill in the latter department, upon his venerable preceptor. He 
told his father, that he had gone several times to the pen, where they 
were shut up, and that he had seen Kathleen McCready watching 
them with a light, and that, of course, it was of no use “ to lie 
after staaling them ducks ony moor.” 

In all this there was just enough of truth for the construction of 
a plausible falsehood. He had gone about a month before, for the 
purpose of stealing McCready’s ducks ; and he had seen Kathleen 
with the light as he asserted ; but the adventure had a very serious 
termination, the knowledge of which he thought proper to withhold 
from his father, and which it is high time for us to disclose. Thad- 
dy Mcishee, in the course of his furtive operations, had frequently 
approached near enough to Kathleen McCready, to satisfy himself, 
if we may use his own words, when speaking of her among his 
brothers and sisters, that she was “ as nate nor a primrose.” But 
the relation of their respective families prevented even a speaking ac- 
quaintance. Upon the occasion, to which we have referred, Thaddy, 
having prepared a bag of sufficient size to hold his plunder, cautiously 
approached the scene of action, just as the sound came sweeping 
over the lake from the bells of Killarney, which were then ringing 
nine. He reconnoitered the poultry yard, and found the ducks in 
their pen. At that moment he heard a voice, and, creeping on his 
hands and knees towards the cottage, he perceived Kathleen, with 
iier candle and her book, sitting by the side of a table, near an open 
window, reading aloud. No person was in the apartment but her- 
self. Her father and mother had gone to bed, after a hard day’s 
work. Thaddy had never enjoyed so good an opportunity of seeing 
Kathleen in his whole life, and he had never heard the sound of her 
voice till then. For a moment he was completely subdued by the 
sweetness of its tones. He continued to lie flat upon the grass, 
stretching up his head, like a turtle from its shell, to get a fairer 
view. Kathleen suddenly paused, and turned her face towards the 
window. It was accidental however, and Thaddy, upon whose 
brow the perspiration had already started, recovered his composure, 
when he saw her snuff the candle and turn over the leaf. She was 
reading a chapter of the Apostle, which contains the decalogue. 
As she recommenced, her head was again turned towards the win- 
16 


VOL. I. 


182 


AN IRISH HEART. 


dow. Thaddy fancied that Kathleen looked him directly in the eye. 
But what was his amazement, when she uttered the words, “ Thou 
shall not steal!” “ The Lard bliss ye, maastress Kathleen,” said 
poor Thaddy, “ how in the name o’ nathur cud ye know' that I was 
after the ducks 1” — “ And who are you?” inquired Kathleen. with 
much less of agitation in her manner, than such a surprise might be 
thought likely to occasion. “Who are you?” she inquired again 
“ It ’s myself,” answered Thaddy in a suppressed voice. Kath- 
leen held the light forward and instantly recognized her visitor, 
“ And cud ye ha’ sa bad a heart, to be after staaling my poor ducks, 
I'liaddy Mashee?” said Kathleen. “I didn’t maan to staal the 
ducks,” answered Thaddy, “ now I knows they were your own 
bards, and I wud n’t sa much as hart a hair o’ their heads, an I had 
know’n it afore.” — “ Ah, Thaddy Mashee,” said Kathleen, “ don’t 
ye be after lying aboot it, for the faar o’ God. Can ye raad, Thad- 
dy? may be, and ye can raad, I wud lind ye my good book haar, and 
ye might be lid away from your bad courses, and turn protestant, 
Thaddy.” — “I cannot raad a word o’ it all,” replied Thaddy, 
hanging his head, “ but I thinks I wud be after turning a’maist 
onything to plase yourself, Kathleen McCready.” 

It is not our intention to repeat any more of the conversation 
between Thaddy and Kathleen. The account may be summarily 
stated ; Kathleen had saved her ducks — Thaddy had lost his heart ; 
and, if there be truth in the proverb, that exchange is no robbery, 
there was something in the feelings, with which this poor Irish girl 
laid her head, that night, upon her pillow, which went not a little 
way to balance the account. 

From that hour Thaddy Mashee found no more agreeable employ- 
ment, than in rendering some kind office to Kathleen. The duck 
pen was often stored, over night, by some unknown person, with 
fish, which abounded in the lake ; and, by the same invisible hand, 
bunches of primroses were occasionly thrown in at the window. 
David McCready had, for some time, rejoiced in that apparent secu- 
rity, which prevailed in his humble domain ; and, now and then, 
some long lost article of property appeared mysteriously in its orig 
inal position. 

The death of old Phelim Mashee, which occurred about a yeai 
from this period, produced an immediate dispersion of the remain 
ing members of his family ; Thomas had already fallen from a pre 
cipice and broken his neck ; Winifred had run away with a wild 
chap from Kilkenny ; and Owen was drowned in the lake. Upon the 
death of old Phelim, the poor-house of Killarney received its tribute. 
Tooley went to sea. Thaddy alone remained in Innisfallen. — 


AN IRISH HEART. 


183 


About three months before his father’s death, he had so effectually 
wroufrht upon the heart of old David McCready, by his good 
beliavior, that he was received into the family as an assistant, on 
the day after the funeral. David went to the funeral of old Phelim 
himself ; and, when any allusion was made to the old man’s of- 
fences, he always interposed with “ sure it ’s all to be sitiled i’ the 
dee : jist lit ould Mashee rist aisy in his shell, till he ’s called to 
answer for it all.” 

Thaddy gave entire satisfaction to his employer. We cannot 
assert, that he grew daily in favor with God and man ; but he cer- 
tainly obtained favor in the eyes of Kathleen McCready. After a 
long day of toil, he seldom failed to ask her to “ spake a few good 
M ards out o’ the book.” And as she was very desirous of converting 
the poor lad, she was ever ready to read a chapter or two, before 
they separated for the night. How effectually she advanced the 
cause of protestantism may be inferred from Thaddy’s sensible 
remarks, which were always to the point : “ An isn't it yourself 

now, Kathleen McCready, that has the voice o’ an angel! — It’s 
svaatly rid. Miss Kathleen ! — And had n’t I rather sit haar wid ye, 
o’ a bright night as it is, an haar ye raad the good book, nor to haar 
ould Father McCloskey say mass, through his nouse, for a hull 
waak, or the like o’ that?” 

For the convenience of both sexes, it has been reduced into the 
form of a portable proverb, that love doth never stand still. This 
is never more true, than when a comely young Irishman is the chief 
engineer. Thaddy and Kathleen were not many months engaged 
in their joint study of theology, before they had settled a knotty 
point of infinite importance, in connection with their temporal wel- 
fare. This portion of their existence, though in all probability, by 
far the most happy period of their lives, cannot be equally interest- 
ing to the reader, in all its minute and comparatively insignificant 
detail. Thaddy and Kathleen were equally in love with each other. 
Slie had given him a lock of her hair; he had presented her with a 
silver ring, surmounted with two hearts of red glass, which he had 
purchased at Killarney ; and they had solemnly vowed with all due 
tormality to be man and wife, when Thaddy should be twenty-one. 
All these matters having been irrevocably settled, Kathleen informed 
her parents, that Thaddy Mashee had made her a proposal of mar- 
riage ; and, as in duty bound,. requested their counsel and advice. 
The old folks took the whole matter as gravely into their consider- 
ation, as though their joint veto would have had any serious influ- 
ence in breaking off the match. After grave reflection, they gave 
their consent, provided Thaddy continued to be as clever a lad, until 
.e should be twenty-one. 


184 


AN IRISH HEART 


The scattered seed, buried deeply in the earth, beyond the influ 
ence of the sunbeam, and which has slumbered long and unprofitably 
there ; when brought nearer to the surface, by some casual disturb- 
ance of the soil, though after years of indolence, may yet vegetate, 
and put forth its stalk, and leaves, and flowers. And this fortune is 
as likely to befall the bramble as the rose. How similar is this to 
that process of vegetation, which not unfrequently takes place in 
the human heart. Principles, good and evil, which have been there 
deeply implanted in our early days, overgrown and smothered, as it 
were, by thoughts and cares, incident to some new direction, which 
circumstances have given to our course of life, may continue, in a 
state of torpitude, not only for years, but in some extraordinary 
cases, until life's decline. As gentle showers and a genial atmos 
phere call forth the green shoot from the ground, those early prin- 
ciples may also be quickened into action, by a peculiar and apposite 
combination of events. When the grace of God begins to fall, like 
the soft dews of Hermon, upon the hard heart of some penitent 
offender, it is no uncommon occurrence, for the first sensible im- 
pressions of good, the first profitable compunctions for sin to be 
intimately and delightfully blended with inexpressibly tender recol- 
lections of our childhood; — of the morning walks and evening 
counsels of some pious father, or mother ; — of those gatherings 
around the family altar, with which the day began and ended. — 
This pleasing picture may be painfully reversed. A strong desire 
for some temporal advantage, in the gift of one, who is not likely to 
bestow it unworthily, may stimulate a sinner to such extraordinary 
exertions, that he will be sometimes seen to constrain his outer man 
into the semblance of a saint. Long after the possession of such 
earthly good, he may continue to hold his propensities to evil 
under a very creditable measure of restraint. Such restraint may 
become so familiar, so easy, that he may almost flatter himself into 
a belief that his evil nature has been effectually subdued. This 
condition of things will too often prove, at last, to have been owing 
to the absence of temptation alone. And when, at length, he 
becomes a runagate, fully developed, there may be some, whose 
recollections may enable them readily to associate a vicious old age 
with a profligate boyhood. But it is not always thus. — 

Kathleen McCready never did anything by halves. She w-as 
thoroughly in love with Thaddy Mashee ; — she gave him her heart 
— her whole heart, without any reservation whatever Kathleen 
was no philosophical calculator of cause and effect. She never 
took into the account two important considerations, either of which 
is of sufficient consequence to teach anv voung woman to pause; 


AN FRISH HEART. 


18^ 


Thaddy was still abominably ignorant, and, until very lately, had 
been exceedingly vicious. He was devoted however to Kath- 
leen ; and, if she had been an empress, she would cheerfully have 
given him her sceptre for a shillala. This poor Irish girl was pos- 
sessed of a good natural understanding, but her heart set no limit to 
its loving, when it had fairly begun to love at all. Evil report and 
good report, as connected with the object of her affection, varied not 
the measure of that affection the tithe of a hair. All this may 
appear superlatively ridiculous to those, who marry for money and 
love by rul^. But, beside her old father and mother, Kathleen 
McCready had no other object of deep interest upon earth, than 
Thaddy Mashee. She could not distribute the mass of her love 
into parcels, and bestow part upon her carriage, and part upon her 
fine clothes, and part upon her furniture, and give her lover the 
small balance in hand. She did not love him, because he adminis- 
tered to her passion for finery and pleasure, but she loved him, all for 
himself, and, simply because he was Thaddy Mashee. Hers indeed 
A^as a first, young love. The soil of her heart had been ever unbro- 
ken till then. Larry O’Rourk, to be sure, had scraped round her, a 
year before, when she was passing a week or two with a friend at 
Killarney. He was desperately in love with Kathleen. But Larry 
was an unalterable catholic, and Kathleen was determined to wed 
none but a protestant. Besides, a part of Larry’s religion consisted 
in praying to saints and worshipping carved images, and idols, 
which Kathleen held to be preposterous abominations. He was 
particularly scrupulous, in paying his devotions to one idol, in par- 
ticular, under the semblance of a stone jug. 

Thaddy Mashee had attained the age of twenty-one years, and 
had passed through the interval of probation, from the day of his 
engagement with Kathleen, to the period of his majority, to the 
entire satisfaction of her parents. — Kathleen McCready, by unre- 
mitting diligence in reading the Scriptures, had acquired no incon- 
siderable knowledge of their invaluable contents. She had a faith- 
ful and truly humble reliance upon God’s promises ; and her simple 
and earnest supplications for her father and mother, for Thaddy and 
herself, if less remarkable for long words, and all the formal techni- 
calities of prayer, were not the less likely on this account, to ascend, 
unincumbered, to Heaven. Of Thaddy’s progress in religion we 
can say but little. He was certainly desirous of acting in conform- 
ity with the earnest wishes of Kathleen ; and, as she was not dis- 
posed to throw any insurmountable obstacle in the way of theii 
union, she, most probably, did not examine the evidences of his con 
version from Romanism, with all the rigid scrupulosity of an irapar 

VOL. I. 16 * 


186 


AN IRISH HEART. 


tial father of the church. He undoubtedly believed himself to be a 
better protestant, than he had ever been a catholic ; and the doctors 
of the Sorbonne would have conceded as much. Kathleen was untir 
ing in her exertions to make him acquainted with the simple truths 
of religion. He appeared to have a correct idea of the increased 
difficulty of instructing one, who had grown up, for twenty years, 
in ignorance and irreligion. “ It ’s aisier to make a straight stick,” 
he would sometimes say, when her patience had been severely tried, 
by his inaptitude, “ than to mind sich a crooked one, Kathleen.” 

One morning he came down, with a smiling countenance, fully 
satisfied, that he had become a good protestant during the night. 
“Och! Thaddy, what can ye maan?” said Kathleen, “y’ave oin 
draming, sure.” “ Indaad, and I have, Kathleen,” replied Thaddy. 
“ Jist hark a bit, and I ’ll spake it to ye, daary. I thought o’ it, 
the dee, and all afore night, ye see, if I cud hit upon a plan to know 
for sartin, an I was baing raaly a protester nor the tother. So I fill 
aslaap and it ’s sure, I was wide awak, for I ricollected as wall as it 
was yourself, Kathleen. And so I dramed o’ a plan, whin 1 was 
awak, to find out the sacret, after I was sound aslaap, as I was.” — 
“ Whoosh ! daar Thaddy now,” said Kathleen, “ I wud not be 
after minding a draam, or the like o’ that neither; but ” — “ List 
to it hinny, and ye ’ll say yourself, there niver was the like o’ it, for 
a draam in the warld. So ye see, whin I wak’d up, as I did, after 
I had been aslaap, mind ye, I did the thing jist as it happunt i’ the 
draam. I opunt the windy, and pit a bit o’ paper on the tap o’ it, 
that is, on the buttum, ye know. So says I to myself, for there 
was nobody else to spake to, — Thaddy, says I, if y’area poor 
misguided catholic, the bit o’ paper wull blow out, but if y’ are a 
raal protester in your heart, thin sure the bit o’ paper wull blow 
in.” — “And which way did the bit o’ paper blow, Thaddy?” 
inquired Kathleen. “Why now,” answered Thaddy, “if ye’ll 
belaave the thing, it stud jist as still, hinny, as a cauld praty.” — 
“And for why thin Thaddy, did ye think ye was not a catholic after 
all?” said Kathleen. “ And don’t ye saa it,” he replied, “ as claar 
as the water in Lough Lean, and nothing can be clarer nor that, the 
Lard lift me to be jist which I plased ; and is n’t it I, that plases to be 
a raal protestei, Thaddy Mashee?” Kathleen, of course, was not 
fully persuaded of Thaddy’s conversion, by such an argument as 
this. She told him that he must pray to God for light and knowl- 
edge, and listen to the Scriptures. Nevertheless, she had such 
confidence in Thaddy’s desire to be a good protestant, that she con- 
sented to appoint a day for their wedding. The ceremony was per- 
formed by a protestant clergyman from Killarney, and it may not ba 


AN IRISH HEART. 


187 


unworthy of remark, that the wedding gown was a present from 
Larry O’Rourk, who was at the wedding, and confessed afterwards, 
that he had bee^ at fifty weddings, and never went away sober from 
any one of them before. The tumultuous character of his feelings, 
upon this occasion, forced the poor fellow to laugh and cry from the 
beginning of the ceremony to the end of it. Four or five days before 
the occurrence, Larry came very unexpectedly to McCready’s cot- 
tage, with a small bundle in his hand, and desired to see Kathleen. 
She was at first not a little embarrassed, by the presence of such an 
unusual visitor. “ Ye ’ll be after thinking it ’s a dale o’ impudence 
in me to visit ye jist now,” said Larry, “ but it ’s no sa ill mint ony 
way. I ’ve not come to spake o’ the ould mather nather. Mistress 
Kathleen, at all, at all. I know it ’s all sittled long afore,. in favor 
o’ Thaddy Mashee, good luck to him onyhow. An ye had married 
a w'ealthy lubber, and all for the shiners, I cud not ha’ tuk the 
mather sa aisy, Kathleen ; and it wor not right daling at all an I 
had not dressed him a shillala, and gin him a teest o’ the thing 
acrass the chaak o’ the nkgur. But Thaddy ’s a poor lad like 
myself, and it ’s all for the love o’ the ragged spalpeen that he is, that 
he v/as, it is that I maan, that y’ are going to be married. — My 
sister Biddy O’Rourk was it, ye know, she did n’t marry Bob Dough- 
erty, and it was na fault o’ hers nather, and no impachement o’ 
Bob's intigrity for all that. She died, the poor crathur, before the 
day o’ her widding or thereabouts. We used to say that two paas 
in a pud, were niver alike, nor Biddy and you were not, i’ the bilt 
and shape o’ ye both. I bought her a widding gownd, and she niver 
wore it ye know, jist for the raison I tould ye. Now ye ’ll wear 
it yourself, I guess, not to plase me to be sure, but to plase the 
poor girl, that ’s dead and gane, for she iver spake a civil ward 
o’ ye, Kathleen.” Larry threw down the bundle, and, wiping his 
eyes with the sleeve of his coat, strode away, as fast as his legs 
could carry him, and without waiting for a word of reply from Kath- 
leen. 

Kathleen’s perplexity at Larry’s present was speedily abated. 
“ Good luck to ye Katty,” said her mother, “ an it ’s you that will 
waar the thing sure, at your widding, avourneen, becase an 3 ^e 
did n’t, ’t wud be a didly offince, an there ’s not an O’Rourk that wud 
na be after faaling it to the back bun. It ’s a nate thing o’ Larry 
onyhow. He ’s a gin’rous crathur, and an illegant lad he was, 
afore he tuk to sucking like a laach at the mountain dew. Ye ’ll 
pit it on your back for sartin, at the widding ; an, after y’ are buck- 
led by the praast, and Thaddy has taken the first kiss, it wud be na 
moor nor ceevil to let Larry 0’Roe.t^v ha’ the next one, if he ’s not 
ondacent for the liquor, mind ye.” 


188 


AN IRISH HEART. 


It was about a fortnight after the wedding that Thaddy had occa 
sion to go over to Killarney. It was evident on his reuiiii, by the 
agitation, which he exhibited, that he had met with some iwipleasant 
adventure. The anxiety upon his countenance did not escape the 
notice of Kathleen, who interrogated him, in relation to the cause 
of it. “ Why, it ’s all for your own silf, hinny, that my blood was 
up, before ye cud wink your swate eyes entirely, it was. They 
made crooked faces, ye saa, an call’d ye hard names, an if I had a 
bit o’ rowan tree, for the want o’ a raal shillala, I *d a gin ’em tlieir 
gruel, wild n’t I ?” — “ Hut ! Thaddy, an who, in the name o* the 
wicked w^arld, w^as it that did it, an what was it they did, when it 
was done?” cried Kathleen. — “Why jist this it was,” replied 
Thaddy, “ whin I was ower at Killarney, as I was in no petiklar 
hurry, having nothing in the w^arld to do jist thin, I stud as pace- 
able as a shaap, looking at the harses, fine bastes were they, which 
Lord Denmore was a claaning down, naar his Lordship’s stables, 
Tom McCormick his groom, it w’as that claan’d ’em ; whin 1 haard 
a buddy ower the way, calling ‘Thaddy Mashee,’ that’s myself 
mind ye. So I looks round, an there was Father Brian O'Balliguts 
and Tony Mesarvy, the curate. So I tuk aff my cap, an ‘ What ’s 
your Riverence’s wull V saad I, as I wint acrass. ‘ What 's the sin 
ye have been committing, ye spalpeen V says Father Brian, jist thase 
was his wards. I thought, for the sowl o’ me, he was a bit frolick- 
some, as he, sometimes is, ata wake or a birrel, when the porther 
is all right. So I saad to him, ‘ Nathing, your Riverence to mintion, 
unliss it be a sin to waste a braaf minnit in looking at a fine baste.’ 
— ‘ Y’ are a greater baste yourself,’ saad he as quick as a flash o’ 
powther ; an I thin conjicter’d by thare crooked faces, that he an the 
curate w'as in arnest. ‘ Y’ ave married a vile hiretic,’ saad he, ‘ an 
ye ’ll have the comfort o’ ache ather’s society longer nor ye ’ll wush 
for, Ise warrant, for ye’ll be damned etarnally togither.’ — ‘ Be- 
side,’ said the curate, ‘ y’ are not married nather whither or no, for 
all that, ye monster as ye are, for the cirimony was perfarmed by a 
hiretic praast, which is no praast at all, nohow, an agin the law it 
is.’ — ‘ You a catholic !’ cried Father Balliguts, ‘ your sowl will be 
roasted ye vagabone, why ye haan’t come to confission for a yaar 
nor more.’ — So they rin on, one taking up the ward, whin the 
tother pit it down. I might as wall tried to clap my rid rag betune 
the clitter clatter jaws o’ a nail maker ingin, as to squaze in a ward 
beluiie Father Brian an the curate. At last saad one nor tlie tother 
an for the botheration o’ it, it isn’t me that can till which o’ ’em it 
was, ‘What have ye got to say for yourself ye varmint F sed he. - - 
My blood was a little up, mind ye, jist a day or two after my wid- 


AN IRISH HEART. 


189 


ding ; so says 1, ‘ Father Brian Balliguts, I owe ye not a luck penny 
the Lard be praised, an I ‘d have ye take notish, that Ise been a raa. 
protester for eight months at laast ; an, as for baing married or no, 
Mr. Mesarvy, which y’ave had the manners to spake o’ without 
ony dacency at all, at all, I ’ll jist mintion it in your Riverence'a 
aar, that it ’s ginrally belaaved y’ are not married yourself to Polly 
Mahony, nor na other, not manning to be petiklar onyhow.’ 
Catholic praast as he was, daap scarlet rid was it, that he colored 
jist thin, to that end o’ his aar, that belanged to the pillory foor 
yaars ago, nor moor, whin he scampered away along wi’ Widdy 
I'innigan's daughter, an broke the ould leddy’s heart into foorty 
paces. He was not a praast thin, to be sure, but laming to be 
one.” — “ Daar Thaddy,” said Kathleen, “isn’t it you after all, 
that wull be gitting yourself into throuble ; an what did Father Brian 
an the curate chuck in your taath for that much?” — “Och! now, 
Kathleen, it was not in the like o’ me to be impartinint to sich as 
them ; an I knew wall enough, that Tony Mesarvy cud na be mar- 
ried by the rules o’ the praasthood ; but I thought after his thrate- 
ment o’ me, it wud be as wall to pit him i* the way o’ laaving off 
praching, an baing an honest mon into the bargin. But ye ax’d me 
hinny, what they ped me for the outlay. Blunderanoon ! Wurra 
it was, was n’t it them same that stud right away fro’ me, an 
crassed ’emselves, as though I had brought ’em a bit favor fro’ 
Scatland, which they was not jist willing to resave. — ‘ Y’ are 
damn’d for it,’ says the curate, ‘ an all your posterity including 
your father, the thaaf that he was.’ — ‘Next Thursday,’ saad 
Father Brian, ‘is the dee for cursing hiretics, appointed by the most 
holy catholic church. A most fortunate evirit it is, providintial 
entirely. Pit him down for a double portion.’ — So the curate tuk 
out a leetle book an wrote away. ‘ Ye ’ll ha’ your share o’ the 
brimstone,’ saad Father Brian. ‘ Exkimmunikit it is that ye are, 
an so ye was afore ye* was born. A sore pity, to be sure, that sich 
an honest lad as ye might ha’ bin, if ye had not bin the divil incar- 
nate that ye are, should be etarnally roasted ; an aven now, ye poor 
toad, for I saa ye thrimble all ower, like an aspin laaf, — aven now, 
if ye wull gi’ up your evil ways an the divil’s bard o’ a hiretic, that 
y’ ave married, an crave the church’s pardon, on your knaas, an 
the curate’s, an come to mass an confission like an obadient lad, it 
cud be gotten ower perhaps. A little practical ividence that y’ ave 
truly repinled wud be expicted o’ course. A fine lot o’ tarkeys an 
gaase it is, that I ’ve saan as I pass’d ould David McCready’s on 
the island.’ — Now it isn’t me that wull lie about it ; I did thrimble 
a leetle, an the dhraps o’ shwet stud upon my forhead, whin he 


190 


AN IRISH HEART. 


inmtioned the ward exkimmunikit, an to haar him tall^ o’ haing 
roasted, an the like o’ that, an that same a praast into the bargain ; 

— but whin he call’d ye a hiretic, swate crailmr that ye are, an he 
had been ony other than he was, 1 wud a done for him, Ise warrant 

— I did n’t thrimble after that, ye may depind. ‘ Father Balligiits.’ 
says I, ‘I till ye, a protester it h that I am, an y’ ave nathing to do wi’ 
me ; an it isn’t the vally o’ a laan ould gander, that 1 ’d gi’ to ony 
mon, that would spake so onjintaal o’ Mistress Mashee ; an so, if 
you plase, ye may jist throw aff your cassock to make the w'ark 
ais} an exkimmunikit the whole boodle o’ the family, turkeys an 
all, till y’are tired.’ An so I turned upon my haal, an was aff it. a 
jiffy. I jist look’d ower my showther, an 1 saa ’em crassing ’em- 
selves, an I haar’d something aboot exkimmunikit in ating, an 
in drinking, an in slaaping ; an, jist when I look’d agin, they was 
taming in for a dhrap o’ dew to Paddy McCleary’s shebeen.” 

'‘Poor faable crathurs they are,” said Kathleen, after a short 
pause. “ It is n’t in the like o’ them to fitch an carry for the Lard. 
Ah, Thaddy, faar not what man can do unto ye, an vengeance is 
mine saith the Lard. Ye reinimber that I ’ve rid the like o’ that to 
ye in the book. Isn’t it myself, Kathleen McCready.” — “ No it 
isn’t,” said Thaddy, interrupting her. — “ No more it isn’t,” con 
tinned Kathleen, “ Ise no desire to change back agin, Thaddy. 
Isn’t it myself thin, Kathleen Mashee, that used to rin for life wi’ 
hunders o’ poor sowls after the praasts, to do thare bidding. It 
saarns to me now, sich mummery, more like pitting min in Gad’s 
place, nor ony other. The w'hole time was wasted wi’ aves, an 
pater nosters, an baads, an masses, an confissions, an praying to the 
saints, poor buddies, as though the Lard Gad, who has an eye ower 
all his warks, had not an aar for all his crathurs. — But, Thaddy. 
what cud the wicked curate maan aboot the marriage na haing 
raal?” — “ Cushla macree, gi’ yourself no onaisiness aboot that 
nather. It was that same it was that throubled me a leetle. So, 
as I was passing Daniel O’Leary’s, that imminent lawyer, ye know, 
I call'd out Paddy Shane, the lad that swaaps the affice it is ; an 
I stated the case to him, as I thought he might ha’ heer’d the law- 
yer spake o’ it, the like o’ it I maan, whiles he was swaaping ; an 
so ye saa, he nivir did. But the oblaaging crathur, says he, tho 
lawyer has jist got a fee, that he niver got the like o’ it in his life ; 
it ’s fro’ ould Doran the miser, for proving to the satisfaction o’ the 
jury, that Pether, the ould man’s son, did n’t staal the brown ’orse 
that he staal’d afore Christmas. Pether had got to be down- 
hearted, an lost his gizzard a bit, by baing sa lang i’ Dingle jail, 
•0 he confissed that he staal’d the ’orse, afore the jailer an a dozen 


AN miSH HEART. 


191 


moor. But Lawyer O’Leary proved by moor nor foorty witnesses 
an his own father an mother amang- the rist, that Pether was sieh 
an infamous liar that the jury cud pit no reliance upon onyiliing he 
sed. So he got him alf, an the ould dryskin o’ a miser, as he is, 
has jist pit the guineas in his hand, an it ’s fee enough for Pether an 
the like o’ you. Lawyer O’Leary is jist in the humor. Come in 
mon, sed Paddy Shane, an I ’ll inthroduce ye. So it was I, that 
win! in, an Paddy Shane, an he has a claan tongue o’ his own, made 
a plainer case o’ it nor I had tould him myself. So Lawyer 
O’Leary he laughed a dale, he did ; an he tould me to git along, 
an he sed a saucy thing aboot yerself hinny, but nathing ondacerit 
it was. If y’ ave more childher sed he nor y’ ave praties, tliH tane 
wull lawfully inhirit the tother. An he bade me till Tony Mesarvy, 
the curate, if I mit him, that Lawyer O’Leary wud exkimmunikit 
him himself afore Easter, for a pair o’ brogues, that he had n’t ped 
for to Dan Rian, the starving shoemaker. So I made my bow, that 
is I made a dale o’ bowing an whin I come out, ‘ there ’s no fee to 
be sure,’ sed Paddy Shane, ‘ but an ye laave a tarkey or a flitch o’ 
bacon, whin y’ are in Killarney agin, it wud be doing the dacent 
thing.’ — ‘An sure it wud,’ sed I ; ‘ y’ are a jewel Paddy, an it shall 
be forthcoming.’ — An so ye saa now for yourself, swale Katty, 
it ’s all according to law, and sure it ’s worth a tarkey, or a graan 
goose alher, to know as much nor that.” 

It is not easy, among the walks of humble life, to discover a more 
satisfactory example of happindss than that, which existed here, in 
the centre of Lough Lean. The wants of this happy couple were 
those of mere necessity, and they were easily supplied. The lake 
afforded its tribute for man’s Occasions in abundance. The poultry 
yard was sufficiently stocked, not only for domestic uses, but many 
a fat bird w^as exchanged for the good things of Killarney, and now 
and then for the good crathur ; for an Irishman, who did not some- 
times partake of it, would, in former days, have been deemed 
scarcely worthy to be called a child of Erin. The McCreadies had 
also a mouleen or two. The surrounding woods furnished fuel in 
abundance, and there was no want of plain, wholesome apparel. 
Here then were meat, fire, and clothes, the sum total of man’s phys- 
ical wants, so far as the body is concerned. Here also there was 
no lack of spiritual aliment, for that all in all, the great text-book 
of time and of eternity, was here. Beneath the roof of thatch, and 
as the honored possession of a poor Irish girl, it spoke the same 
uncompromising and unalterable language, that it pronounced in the 
palaces of kings, and from the lips of archbishops. The tide of 
imaginary necessities had not flowed toward this humble dwelling 


AN miSH HEART. 


One wave follows not more certainly, in close pursuance of its pr©' 
decessor, than one imaginary want presses behind another ; until 
happiness, if such it may be called, is found to consist not in the 
fruition of our present possessions, but in an interminable pursuit of 
novelty. There is not a more unattainable object than entire con- 
tentment with our present condition, whatever it may be ; and the 
most effectual means for securing it are to be found in the establish- 
ment of a just relative standard of value, between the commodities 
of earth and heaven. Kathleen had made her Bible a profitable 
study ; for, almost unaided in searching the holy volume, she had 
found the highest object of all human pursuit, her Saviour and her 
God. Kathleen was a humble Christian. She was devoted to her 
parents in their old age ; and, as a wife, the very name of Katty 
Mashee was a proverb, in those parts. She loved Thaddy, on other 
scores than the mere relation of husband. As one feels an affection 
for an individual, whom he has drawn out of the water by the very 
locks, as it were; so Kathleen looked upon Thaddy as a brand, 
that she had saved from the burning. She had been the means, 
under Providence, of turning him from a career of crime ; and, 
whatever was the sum total of Thaddy ’s religion, it was attributa- 
ble, under the same guidance, to her untiring exertions alone. For 
Tliaddy, though devotedly attached to Kathleen, was naturally as 
wild and changeable as the mountain wind ; and such impressions 
as were produced upon his mind, were liable, in no ordinary degree, 
to be effaced by the very first impulse of this world’s affairs. 
“ Daar heart,” she would often say, after several ineffectual at- 
tempts to impress some precious truth upon his mind, “ it ’s wi’ the 
mather 1 wud fix in ye, as it is wi’ the footprint upon the sandy 
shore o’ ijough Lean, the very next flush of the wather carries it 
away.” 

Thaddy Mashee had satisfied himself, and he was not alone in 
the opinion, that he had no talent for carrying on the little farm, 
which his father-in-law had tenanted for so many years. “Whin 
your honored father is gane and gathered, Katty,” said he, “ what 
shallj be after gaining here, in the way o’ a livelihood, but a ded 
loss? ’T will be a losing consarn, so will it inc’aad.” At one time 
he was inclined to settle in Derry, and be a wea'^'er. At another, 
he was disposed to fix himself down, as a shoemaker, in Killarney. 
At length he came to the conclusion, that he would be a carpenter, 
and live out his days in Limerick. — About a year after their mar- 
riage, Kathleen was blessed with a son, whom they called David 
McCready after his grandfather. This event appeared greatly to 
increase Thaddy ’s anxiety for the future. — “It’s hard gittin on 


AN IKISH HEART. 


193 


Kathleen,” said he one evening, as they were sitting by the child’s 
cradle. “ It wor iver hard enough, but harder yet it ’s to be. 
Why, ye ’ll not tarn your head ower your showther, afore David 
McCready Mashee, daar little imp that he is jist now, will be want- 
ing his brogues and his hat, and his coat, and the like o’ that. 
Your honored father, whin he was that same man what he was, in 
the green tree, cud no more nor bring the two inds o’ the yaar 
togither, and tough enough, that it was. Sure it ’s not myself, that 
can do the like o’ him. He ’s an insight o’ thase mathers and a 
daap calkillater he is, and knows jist how mony praties apace w’ull 
do it, ye saa. I wush I had bin brought up to it, Katty, — daar 
me; — I cud do it aisily I think, was I to larn the carpinter’s 
trade. Limerick is a great place for a carpinter, they say, Katty.” 
— “ Don’t ye remimber,” said Kathleen, “ last night it was, I was 
raading it to ye, Thaddy, daar mon, ‘ Take no thought for the mor- 
row, what ye shall ate, nor what ye shall drink, nor wherewithal ye 
shall be clothed 1’ ” — “I had na misremimbered that nather, Kath- 
leen,” he replied ; “ nor this other tixt that ye rid to me, ‘ He that 
provideth not for his own household is ten times worse nor an 
infidel,’ I think it was.” — “Wall, Thaddy,” said Kathleen ; “ I ’se 
right glad y' ave remimbered it so wall, though it is n’t jist so in the 
Bible. — Ye’ll mind it, Thaddy, father and mother are ould now. 
and I hope mony summers and winters it wull be, afore the black ox 
trids upon the toe o’ ather, good luck to ’em both. But let us talk 
saftly, for they may be waking ye know, and wud n’t be plased to 
haar us spaaking so fraaly o’ their ould age. It wud n’t be me, your 
own Kathleen, that wud cause ye to sorry at some future day, to 
saa me repintant for laaving my father and mither i’ their ould age. 
So I must do the naadful for ’em both in their second childhood, as 
they did for me in the first : and moor nor that, daar Thaddy ” said 
she, sobbing as she spoke, and covering her face with both hands, 
“ their swaat eyes it is, that have tamed upon me so kindly, the 
windies out o’ which their blissed sowls have look’d upon me so 
fondly, their only child that I am, — thase it is that I must shut up 
for this warld, whin they go under boord, to be opunt niver agin till 
the dee. And I am to pit them both, blessed crathurs, along side 
o’ their forbares. — Thin it wull be so, that Kathleen Mashee 
wull not mind the big hills and braad waters for your sake, Thaddy ; 
and whuriver ye go, is n’t it I myself that wull go wid ye? Ye ’ll 
thrate me kindly, I know ye wull ; and, if ye shud be hard upon me, 
may God forgi’ ye now, afore ye rinder me ill for good.” 

Thaddy could scarcely be heard for his sobs : “ Cushla macree,” 
said he, “oan it be ony other than me myself that knows yotu 
I. 17 


t 


194 AN IRISH HEART. 

own maaning, Katty? Whin I was ondacent and rough to ye, the 
night o’ Mary Cary’s berril, rest her sowl, I cud ha’ graav’d out 
thase eyes for that same the nixt marning.” — “Don’t mintion it 
ony moor,” said Kathleen ; “I knew it was na fault o’ yours, daar 
mon. It was the crathur, it was, and so don’t be after taking the 
thrifle that it was to your swaat heart ony moor, Thaddy.” 

Thaddy rested satisfied with Kathleen’s promise for the future. 
He had procured a few tools, and with the occasional assistance and 
instruction, which he was able to obtain, he became tolerably expert 
in ihe coarse branches of carpentry. Thus they lived on for two 
years, at the close of which, upon a careful adjustment of their 
atoount of joys an 1 sorrows, a large balance of happiness would 
have been found in their favor. After his occasional visits at Killar- 
ney, it is true, that Thaddy would frequently bring home with him 
indisputable evidence, that the hahit of treating and being treated, so 
universal among the common Irish, was likely to disturb the har- 
mony of this little household, and, if carried to excess, ultimately to 
destroy it.' Old David, who had fully attained that period, when 
the grasshopper is said to he a burthen, could not always restrain 
his complaints. Kathleen, upon such occasions, was the peace- 
maker. She had obtained no common influence over her husband. 
“ Haar, Thaddy,” she would say, as she drew him to one corner 
of the common apartment, “ this way mon, it ‘s your tay, and a maal 
cake, that ’ll be the hist thing for ye and then, in an undertone to 
the old folks, “ Poor lad it is, laave him alone, it ’s not he that ’s to 
blame, sartin, it ’s the crathur, that same.” 

Time, the wizard, whose alch)rmy is everlastingly at work, had 
wrought great changes in the compass of four years, under the 
thatched roof of David McCready. — Strangers w'ere now the ten- 
ants of old David’s cottage. The duties of filial affection to her 
parents, to which Kathleen had so feelingly alluded, had been faith- 
fully performed. She had closed their eyes, and they were now 
sleeping in peace with their forbares. — Not long after this event, 
Thaddy and Kathleen put together their little possessions, and set 
forward on their way to Limerick, where Thaddy was to perfect 
himself ir the carpenter’s business, and get bread for his family. 
Tnaddy’s spirits were very buoyant. “ Niver doot my succiss 
entirely,’ he would sometimes say, “ it’s sartin it is; for there ’s 
Ilory, and Pether, and Michael O'Donnohue, thard cousins to my 
own father’s sister, Winny Mashee, what ’s in Limerick ever so 
lang, gitting rich it is they are. And they writ me a litter aboot it, 
that is they got it writ. I never resaaved it at all, at all ; but Drian 
Lo^vlder it waB< that btofight it ; that is he forgot and lifil it at 


AN IRISH HEART. 


195 


Bob Finnigan’s shebeen, where he stopped on his jarney to git a 
dhrap albre he started. Come, chaar up hinny,” said he to Kait 
'een, “ and wipe the taurs afF now.” — Kathleen had just gotten out 
of the wherry, in which they had crossed the lake from Innisfallen 
to the main land. She had stopped, for a moment, to take a last 
look of the little island ; — her birth place, — the scene of her past 
life, — the graves of her fathers were there ! The tear gathered in 
her eye. “ Daar Thaddy,” she exclaimed, “ it’s na me repinting 
oiiyhow ; — but maybe I ’ll not see Lough Lean and Innisfallen 
agin.” — “ Cushla macree, chaar up a bit,” cried Thaddy ; “ stand 
safe whur y’ are, till I lift oot the gorsoon ; and isn’t it this little 
crathur, your own it is, that I ’m pitting in your hand, David 
McCready Mashee, wid the name o’ your honored father into the 
bargin ; isn’t it this same, that ’ll be a stay and a staff to ye whin 
y’ are ould?” — “ Ye may wall say that, and I hope it is,” replied 
Kathleen, wiping her eyes, “ but after ail, Thaddy, the halp o’ 
mon ’s a raad ye know. Whin it ’s a.‘ the warst, the true halp is 
haar, and indaad it is,” holding up at the same time Kathleen'' s own 
book, the Bible, which she had not thought proper to trust with their 
ordinary baggage. 

They proceeded on their way, and, without any extraordinary 
adventure, arrived safely in Limerick ; and, as may be readily sup- 
posed, both Thaddy and Kathleen were greatly astonished at the 
magnificence of the metropolis of Munster, compared with anything 
they had seen before. They had not advanced far, after entering 
the town, when Thaddy, notwithstanding the heavy pack upon his 
shoulders, sprang full five feet into the air. “Life’s me!” he 
exclaimed, as he came down, throwing his cap upon the earth for 
joy. “ Daar Thaddy, what ’s in ye to scrape it thus in a great 
strange place?” said Kathleen; “why, the folks it is wull think 
y ’ave seen a banshee, or the like o’ that.” — “ Wurra now,” cried 
Thaddy, “ that same it is, don’t ye saa, lucky heart,” pointing to a 
little shebeen, over which, on a rough board, was chalked, in toler- 
ably fair characters, R FI iVN /G^ N. “ Now I ’ll get at it,” 
continued Thaddy, “entirely;” and, stepping up to the door, he 
gave a smart rap wdth his shillala. “ Walk in,” answered a sharp 
voice. — “ It ’s you to walk out sir, plase ye ; my wife ’s here, an I 
wud na be apt to laave her in a strange place,” replied Thaddy. — 
Upon this the door was opened by a little, round man v>ith a red 
face. “ Your name sir, is Finnigan, onyhow,” said Thaddy. 
“ Indaad an it is,” replied the little man, “ an what ’s your wull sir, 
may be it ’s a dhrap ye wmd.” — “ Not jisi that nather,” replied 
Thaddy. — “ It ’s the dust it is, that mak’s it onconvanient for your 


196 


AN IRISH HEART. 


woman outbide,” rejoined the little man, “ maybe ye ’ll find ar iter 
sate for a leddy inside the shebeen.” — “ The bisness is jist baar 
sir,” said Thaddy, entering the dram shop followed by Kathleen, 
leading David by the hand, “I wild like to resaave the litter that 
Brian Lowder fitched me to Killarney, and lift jist here, for he for- 
got it, the spalpeen that he was.” — “ May be it 's all the same as 
ye spake,” replied Fiimigan ; “ Brian Lowder, that same, is the 
very mon that I niver saa here, nor what ’s moor nor all that, I niver 
haaid o’ him ony where. May be y’ es acquainted in Lim’rick, 
ihongh it ’s your name I niver haar’d afore nor since.” — “ It wud 
ha bin the dacent thing to be sure,” said Thaddy, “ an I had tould 
ye myself. It 's Thaddy Mashee, my name sir, at your sar'^ice, an 
this is Mrs. Kathleen, my w’oman, an the gorsoon is David McCready, 
that was his grandfather, pace to hissowl. Kathleen, hinny,” said 
Thaddy, in a whisper, “ what is ’t ye '11 tak?” — “ A little buther- 
niilk for me an David, plase ye, Thaddy.” — “ Wud it be dacent, 
now we ’re inside the shebeen,” continued he in a low voice, “ not 
to call for a dhrap o’ whiskey, or a leetle porther, hinny 1” Kath- 
leen made no reply, and Thaddy called for — “ a pint o’ porther if 
ye plase, Mr. Finnigan.” The tap went round in a twinkling, and 
the porter was soon foaming on the counter. Kathleen barely tasted 
it, and helped herself and David to some water. “ Haar ’s to our 
better acquaintance, Mr. Finnigan,” said Thaddy, as he put the mug 
to his lips. — “Thanks to ye for all that Mr. McCready,” replied 
the little man. “ Mashee, if ye plase,” said Thaddy, “ an no im- 
pachement o’ the name o’ McCready nather.” — “ An so it was,” 
replied Finnigan, “ there ’s so mony comes haar, that I misremimber 
sometimes. — Scanty custom is it this a way, the dee, for all the 
warld ’s up tother end o’ Lim’rick, to saa Pether O’Donnohue pit 
up. He's to be bang’d for taking a purse on the top o’ the high- 
way.” — “ Whoosh !” cried Thaddy, as he dropped the mug from 
his hand, “ that same is thard cousin to my own father’s sister ony 
how!” — “I beg your pardon sir, upon the honor o’ a jintilmari, 
it ’s not in Robert Finnigan to maan offince to ony customer. It ’a 
right sorry that I am, that your cousin is going to be bang’d ; hut 
the dhrap was to fall at twalve presasely, an it ’s more now nor half 
al'ter ; so ye may contint yourself for it ’s all ower. I ’m truly sorry 
for the poor lad, mony ’s the pint o’ porther and dhraps o’ good 
whiskey he ’s had o’ my own drawing. It ’s a raal disappointment to 
me, that he ’s going to be bang'd, that is, that he is bang’d already, 
whichever way it may be. Indaad it quite pit the small matlier o’ 
the mug, that ye bruk jist now, out o’ mind. It ’s a shilling the 
pair they be ; an oousithexing th,Q ca^, that the mug was broken, 


AN IRISH HEART. 


197 


whiles ye was taking your cousin’s misfortin to heart, an lost the 
portlier info the bargiii, I ’ll take sixpence o’ ye an na moor, unlisa 
ye 11 taste a leetle o’ our whiskey, — a nate thing it is.” 

During the delivery of this expressive specimen ol a whiskey 
seller's grief for the death of an excellent customer, and sympathy 
for surviving friends ; poor Thaddy had taken his seat upon a bench, 
and buried his face in his hands — “ He was an ould frind to ye thin, 
Pether O'Donnohue?” continued Finnigan. — “ I never saa him,” 
answered Thaddy, without raising his head, “ in all my barn dees, 
but I saa his thard cousin, my father’s own sister, mony a dee.” 
Kathleen readily understood, that her husband was not only affected, 
by the disgraceful death of his relative, but very naturally dejeoted 
by an unexpected embarrassment of his hopes. He had become 
impressed with a belief, that the O'Donnohues were “ getting rich,” 
and, as he supposed, in some honest calling. Kathleen, in the most 
natural manner, explained her husband’s situation ; and her evident 
simplicity of character, and uncommon attractiveness of person, so 
far wrought upon the feelings of the little, red man, that he opened 
a door in rear of the shebeen, and took them into an apartment, 
where they could be more comfortable. Finnigan was a catholic, 
but his wife was a protestant. She was very kind to the new 
comers, assured them that Limerick was the “ purtiest city in the 
warld,” and bade them to be “ aisy in their quarthers widout moor 
bidding,” for a day or two, until they could settle their plans. 

After some time, Thaddy mustered courage to inquire after his 
other connections, Rory and Michael, the brothers of Peter O’Don- 
nohue. He made the inquiry with evident embarrassment. “ Mak 
yourself aisy mon,” answered Finnigan, “ hanging wull rin in a 
family, truth it is, but not Rory nor Michael nather it isn’t that has 
gone that a way as Pether. An ye was the first cousin o’ the hull 
blood o’ the best o’ the two, ye wud na git an aar o’ ’em the dee. 
They, an Bill Flannigan, an Paddy Connel, an Matt Clegan, an 
Tom Leary, an a great mony moor ’s detarmined for the buddy ; an, 
whin it ’s cut down, an there ’s not a rush, an a thrial o’ staves, 
my name ’s not Bobby Finnigan. They were expectin a riscue last 
night, an the sojers were out, bad luck to ’em. — An they git the 
buddy, Rory, an Michael, an the rist, if it’s na moor nor a leelle 
‘inger nor a hair o’ his head, it ’s a riglar birrill ihey ’ll have, an a 
ivake into the bargin, depind. If the High Sherry, an he ’s a raal 
bould mon, he is, shud manage it so nately, as to cut him down 
entirely, it ’s rather in a saft bid o’ chaff! wud be, than the sargeon 
to lay a knife to the chaak o’ Pether O’Donnohue, live or did, six 
faat four that he was without his brogues, to cut him up. Not foi 

VOL. I 17* 


198 


AN IKISH HEART. 


the faar o’ Pether nor the banshee, but Rory an Michael wud niver 
linger nor laave, till they W sint the doctor an his instrimints, where 
they don't rake up the fire ony niffht. — lJut the litter, that same ye 
was spaking o’, whin ye kim in the shebeen, that ye niver rcsaav’d. 

— Mav be ’t was from thim tno an Pether tnat ye didn’t resaave it. 

— Hut ! now Ise got the hull mather, an the clue to it ’s jist in my 

heaa. Your cousins an a rigimint o’ ’em ha’ bin in arnest, moor nor 
foor months, to git up a strong gang for America. John McClos- 
key, an extinsive daler he was, in ould harses chafely, wint ower 
fro’ Cark he did, an inimigritted entirely. That same it is, that ’s 
retarned to Lim'rick ; an John spakes o’ the country, as a dacent 
place for an Irishman to live in. He ’s intrating his ould connic- 
tions, an they ’re claan down hill some o’ ’em onyhow, to go back 
alang wi’ him. It ’s poor wark, John McCloskey says, for one poor 
felly to go drifting aboot the new country, like a wild goose wi’ a 
wing an a half ; but a rigimint can stand by one another, as they 
did at the Boyne, or aven haar, whin ould Lim’rick was besaged in 
ninety, an it was. McCloskey is haar amost ivry dee an avening, 
a bating up for recruits ye saa, for the new country, an the O’Don- 
nohues alang wid him ; an it ’s na doot they wud be in the shebeen 
to night, an poor Pether himself, an it was not for this dishagraable 
pace o’ bisness. Maybe y’ ud do a natur thing for yoursilves that a 
way indaad, nor the tother.” 

Thaddy and Kathleen were in bed, three hours at least, before 
they fell asleep, employing that interval in discussing the subject, 
which was last presented to their thoughts. Thaddy was evidently 
inclined to favor the project, and Kathleen consented to any plan, 
which might be most likely to promote his happiness ; but advised 
him not to resolve upon the measure, until he had heard John 
McCloskey’s account of the new country. 

A t at early hour, the next morning, the gathering commenced in 
Bob Finnigan’s shebeen. McCloskey and the O'Donnohues were 
among the first that arrived ; and Kathleen, so far as mere exter- 
nals were concerned, had not much reason to be proud of her hus- 
band's relations. Rory and Michael were a couple of rough-looking, 
broad-shouldered, bull-necked, red-headed fellows, covered with dirt 
and garnished with rags. McCloskey was rawboned and tall. He 
was dressed in a threadbare coat of blue cloth, old leather breeches, 
jack boots, and long spurs, a waistcoat of red plush, and a fox-skin 
cap ; a gilt watch-chain hung ten or twelve inches from his fob ; and 
a large cross of pinchbeck was exhibited, in the bosom of his shirt, 
as dirty as any in the province of Munster. — After the customary 
greetings, and salutations upon the first introduction of the O Don 


AN IRISH HEART. 


199 


nohues and the Mashees; — “Mr. Finnigan,” said McCloskey, 
“ the hisness naad not be so very public, ye know, an ye have 
no objictions, we 11 stip in your house part, an, whin ony o’ our side 
comes in, ye 11 be sinding ’em that a way, mind ye. An jintilmen, 
as this is our first mating, it ’s myself that wull thrate : — jist a 
quart o’ the nate crathur, Mr. Finnigan, if ye plase.” — The party 
adjourned accordingly to the apartment, in rear of the shebeen. 
“So ye was not so succissful, I haar,” said Finnigan, address- 
ing the O’Donnohues, “as ye desarved, it sames;” — “Not that 
nathcr,” answered Rory, with a deep sigh, “ the bloodthirsty villin 
o’ a Sherry it was, bad luck to him ! he had the sojers an the hull 
pussy o’ Lim’rick at his b^ck, an ’t wud ’a bin the hoith o’ madness, 
if we had a ris.” — “ Poor swaat Pether!” cried Michael O'Don- 
nohue, “ they ’s got to answer for it i’ the dee, pitting up an honest 
mon, that a way, onyhow.” — “ Ye may wall say that,” continued 
Rory, “ for, afore he wint aff he confissed, an got a wafer. Father 
Connolly sed it was n’t the like o’ him, that iver heer’d sich a 
confission afore, there was sich a hape o’ offinces, but he made 
a claan brist he did. Good Father Connolly, the Lard be good to 
him, he saad me waping, an he jist whispered to me, as he wint 
on, — ‘ Rory,’ says he, ‘ tak it aisy as ye may, niver did ye saa a 
star i’ the claar night moor nor I saad Pether’s sowl go up to 
glowry.’ ” 

By this time, the room had become full, or nearly so, of persons 
of both sexes, who were more or less inclined to emigrate. — 
“ Whin I was laaving America it was,” said McCloskey, “hang- 
ing was gittin out o’ vogue entirely. Petitions was sint fro’ all 
quarthers o’ America, for pittin a stap to it. I sould a blood ’orse 
to a Siniter, who tould me as much as all that.” — “ Och ! now, 
sowl o’ me,” cried Michael O'Donnohue, “ if Pether had n’t taken 
the jintilman’s purse, till he got ower to the dacent country, that it 
is, haar it is he wud be, at this blissed dee, riddy to immigrit wid 
the rist o’ us.” — “Wall wall, haar ’s pace to his sowl,” said 
McCloskey, turning off his glass of whiskey. The crathur began 
to creep round the room, producing evidences of its magic power, 
in the increasing hilarity and confusion of voices. — “An I was 
wanst ower, it ’s not I that wud be sorry for that same,” said Ned 
Faden, the tailor. “ An may be for all that, it ’s not yourself 
Neddy, that wud n’t be right glad to get a glimpse o’ ould Ireland 
agin,” cried little Peter Healy, who went to America about two 
years before, and had lately returned. — “Whoosh! Och! Hut! 
Wurra !” exclaimed half a dozen voices at once. “ Pether Healy,” 
•aid Rory O’Donnohue, “ an y’ are not the lad to go wid us, y’ ud 


i>00 


AN IRISH HEART. 


better go by yourself an be aisy, an not be after tassing your could 
vvather upon the interprLse onyhow.” — “ Jist listen to raison a bit,” 
cried McCloskey, “ it ’s Mr. Healy sure that ’s a good rig lit to till 
his ixpariences o’ the new country an it plase him ; an thin 1 ’ll jist 
be after axing ye to lit myself spake a minnit, whin he ’s ower.” 
— This proposition was received with a buzz of approbation; and 
Peter Healy, having taken a fresh glass of whiskey, cleared his 
throat to begin. — “ Ye ’ll mak it as bad as ye can, Peiher Healy,” 
cried a rosy lass, who sat in the corner, “ for Patrick, my mon there, 
is for going, an I raally wush he ’d stay at ’um, an cobble the 
brogues, an lave drinking, an divarsions, an divilment, an the like 
o’ that.” — “ Hould your tongue ye jade,” said Patrick Murphy, 
joining himself in the good-natured laugh, occasioned by his wife's 
remark. — “Bad as I can, is it ye say, Eyleyl” cried Peter, “ it 's 
na aisy mather, to make it worse nor it is, ye may depind ; an so 
I ’ll till ye all what I knows aboot America. It ’s me, that wud 
sooner thrate myself to a ride upon ony sliding bog, nor go that a 
way agin. The Sayfiower was the name o’ the ship we wint owei 
in to the new country, an a sayfiower it was indaad, for I thought 
we shud niver be sot upon dry land ony moor. A maan, rotten, 
ould brig it was entirely. She was thray waaks nor moor, gittin 
under way fro’ Dingle. To dee a laak it wud be ; an to morrow 
the captain’s peepers wud n’t be aboord ; thin a shmall touch o’ 
throuble, Mary Flaherty’s childher, the hull thirteen o’ ’em, an she 
a widdy, down wi’ the small pox at wanst. We was all shmook'd 
o’ coorse. Whin all was riddy, a hid wind hild on for moor nor 
eight dees. I jist rin up to Dingle, for a bit o’ fresh air, ye see, 
an, whin I was retarning, the ould hiilk, for the wind had kim fair, 
was standing out o’ Dingle bay. It was myself, Ise warrant ye, 
that fetched a scraam louder nor ony keena ye iver heer'd at a 
wake, an a strait tail it was that I made o’ my lang blue, as I rin 
down the hill. The ould thing pit back her topsail an lay to, jist 
as I scraamed, tho’ she was aff shore, two miles it was. I cud n’L 
ha’ belav’d it was in the man o’ me to scraam at sich a rate as that. 
But I pit forth my lungs onyhow, for I filt murthcred. It ’s my 
chist, an more nor all I had i’ the warld going aff to America, an I 
all alone wid myself in Dingle, where I know’d not a sowl, only 
David McCarthy, an he the last parson I wud saa, for I ow’d him a 
thrifle that it was n’t convanient to pay. The boat was lit down, 
an soon raach’d the wharf, an so I rin to it, an says I, I did n’t 
think ye’d haar me scraam.’ — ‘No moor we didn’t,’ says they. 
But I soon saad how it was. Poor shaapish fellies fro’ Dingle, that 
maan’d to go ower for nothing at all, was deticted in the ovM brig’? 


AN IRISH HEART. 


201 


staarage, for ir.daad they deticted ’emselves, by paaping out for 
southing to ate, having swally’d all the praties they luk wid 'em in 
their pockets, an thinking’, as they confissed, they was moor nor 
> v’l’ vay to America. So we g-ot aboord, an — “ Pether, Pether,” 
‘/...o:! Michael O'Donnohue, “ there 'll be no ind to your kreel this 
*1 way; it was to America ye was going.” — “ Thrue for you 
Miehael,” rejoined Peter Healy, “ but if ye ’d saad that Sayflower 
yourself, ye ’d confiss she was a dull sailer, Michael ; an ould mud 
tarkie wud bate heron a wind. I’ll take a dhrap, since y ’ave 
brought me to a stapping place.” Peter filled his glass. Man is 
said 10 be an imitative animal, and in such a situation, no man 
is more so than an Irishman. Michael attempted to follow his 
example, but the whiskey was dnink out. He was about to 
call Ibr more, but wat prevented by McCloskey ; “another quart, 
Ml. Finnigan,” said tie, “it’s myself that thrates.” — After the 
glass had gone round, Peter Healy whs once more under way in the 
Seafiower. — “ It ’s not me if I iver saad sa mony min, women, and 
cnddher squazed together in sich maan quarthers as I saad thin, 
aboord that same Sayflower, exceptin at ould Tommy McLaughlin’s 
v/ake an birrill ; an the like o’ that was niver saad in Ireland afore 
nor since, for divilment an dart. Moor nor foor waaks we banged 
aboot, bating all the time, an we was bate by ivery thing that kim 
naar us into the bargin. Thin it was we had a gale wud mak your 
chaaks crack agin, an a roarin saa an the ould Sayflower o’ the 
tap o’ it, an thin agin, o’ the buttum. They got her afore the 
wind, and thin the wind got behind her.” — “That’s o’ coorse, 
Pether,” said Eyley, winking at Finnigan’s wife and Kathleen, who 
were seated together. — “ Elyey Murphy,” Peter replied, “your 
tongue nades to be abbraviated, wull ye tak your own shares to it? 
— When the clouds claar’d away a bit, the captin wud ha’ taken 
au obsarvation, but he was purty considerably drunk entirely, an 
jje mate it was, that was no better nor he. Eighty dees we had 
Uii ill this ould Sayflower; an, for twanty, maan ating it was that 
we had ; magre enough I till ye. Thin we had another gale ; we 
carried away both tapmasts an thin” — “Didn’t ye carry them 
same away, whin ye sail’d, Pether?” said Eyley. — “A maan jist 
it is,” replied Peter, “ for a calleen like yourself, Eyley ; an ye ’d 
heer’d the shra’king o’ the women an childher, ye wud n’t a bin 
jokin on y way. I niver curst the crathur in the daap o’ my own 
sowl, till that dee it was. The lives o’ every one o’ us depinded 
upon the captain an the mate, an the harder it blew, they wud get 
drunker nor iver. Tom Cregan, your own cousin he was, Eyley, 
III;, o.p fro’ the staarage, an cried out ‘ She ’s sprang alaak!’ Thin 


^>02 


AN IRISH HEART. 


sich a hulabaloo ,ye niver haar’d in your hull life, for amost all 
thoiinrlit she was sinking- downright. There was one o’ the crew, 
Jack Coffin his name it was, was sober the hull time ; he was what 
in the new country they spake o’ for a yankee. A .stout felly 
that same, an a kind heart an the bist o’ faalings he had. He 
down an was up agin. in a dash, an bade us be aisy; Kaap uv 
your courage my hys,'’ says he, ‘ there ’s a Gad above us all!' " — 
“An did he spake that same?” said Kathleen, while the tears 
filled her eyes. — “ Indaad an he did,” replied Peter Healy, “an 
he pit us to the pumps, an we wark’d more fraaly for our lives, ye 
may be sure, nor for ony ather wages. An now an thin we ’d haar 
Jack Coffin's voice louder nor the storm nor the craaking o’ the oum 
hulk, ‘ Chaar up my hearties^' wud he say, ‘ we 're gaining upon the 
laak;' an didn’t we spare ourselves niver a bit think ye? An thin 
after he sot us to thrumming a sail, as they call it, that is, 3^6 sya, 
we stitch’d it all ower wid oakum an ould rags, — rags a plinty 
there was, for aven the women an the childher w-arked an cr'cd 
together, tearing aff the bits o’ their ould petticoats to thrum the sad 
wid. So we got it ower the ould Say flower, that is under her laaky 
buttum 1 maan ; an it suck’d into the saams, an stapp’d the laak 
moor immadiately nor a mash'd praty. ‘ Thank the Lard for that^' 
sed Jack Coffin. There was another yankee nor he, that niver 
tasted the crathur, Abel Judson they call’d him. They sed they 
were mimbers o’ a society, in the new country, that niver tasted it 
entirely ; a pace o’ their craad was it, na doot. So Jack Coffin 
call'd Jud.son an about a dozen o’ the most lively of the immigrants, 
myself o’ coorse amang the rist, to the quarther dick. — ‘ Silf-pris- 
ervation my lads,' sed he, ‘ is the law o' nathur ;' jist thase was his 
very wards. ‘ Indaad an it is,’ sed we. Jist thin the women begins 
to faal better an stronger, saaing a dozen or moor o’ the bist o’ us 
standing up to one another that a way ; an they pulls their wat 
cloaks ower their showthers, an comminces to wipe the saut weather 
aff the small childher’s faces. — An will ye stand by us two,' sed 
Jack Coffin an Judson, for the rist, mind ye, was drunk, ‘ an toe do 
the bist we can to save all your lives V — ‘ An it ’s that we wull, maas- 
ter Coffin, to the last dhrap,’ sed we, as we stud up close t’ him. 
‘An the caplin kapes drunk,' sed he, ‘ an the mate too, there 's noth- 
ing afore us but th' etarnalwarld,for neither Judson nor myself,' sed 
he, ‘ knows how to tak an observation or navigate the brig ; so if 
ye're true men, follow me.' — Thin he saaz’d a braad-axe an wint 
down to the cabin, an we after him. There was a cask o’ spirits 
there, an Jack Coffin, wid one blow 0’ the braad-axe, stav’d in the 
hid, an away rin the crathur ower the flure ; a graavous sight a\ 


AN IRISH HEART. 


203 


ony other time nor that, to be sure. The mate was daaf as a kree) 
o’ tuif; but the captin ris in his cot, and, drunk as he thin w;«^, he 
saaz’d his pistols, and cri’d ‘ A mutiny!’ an thereupon, holding the 
pistol close to the chaak o’ Hugh Mulligan, he crack'd awa)», but 
some how nor another he miss'd, an the ball lodg'd in the cabin door. 
As he saaz'd the tother pistol, Abel Judson an Jo Muncrief it \<as, 
I ’m thinkin, saaz’d himself, an Jack Coffin tuk away the pistol an 
his hanger. ‘7/ ’5 no mutiny Captin Bailey^'* sed Jack, ^ but y' art 
drunk as a baste, an if ye don't laave aff, an gi' us your assistance, 
ive 're last,' The captin swore terribly, but was too drunk to be o’ 
ony sarvice jist thin. So we lift him for the prisent. We had no 
moor nor got up fro’ the cabin, whin a dreadful big wave struck the 
ould Sayflower, breaking all ower us, casting loose the wather 
casks, ripping away the quarther boords an part o’ the bulwarks, 
swaaping the dicks, an throwing the brig on her baam inds. Ye 
wud n’t ha’ found a heart to joke in the laast, an y’ d ha’ bin there, 
Eyley Murphy, jist thin. Sich a big misery Pether Healy niver saad 
afore nor since. It ’s myself though, that ’s draam’d it out an out 
moor nor a hunder nights. It ’s the strength o’ foorty min saam’d 
to kim to me that minnit. I cotch’d hoult o’ the wither lanyards ; 
an, sure it is, I niver lov’d onything, live or did, so wall afore. 
The poor women an childher, an the faable ould people wern’t no 
match for it ; the saa stripp’d ’em aff like ould rags, an play’d wid 
the poor crathurs, for a braaf minnit, like so mony aggshells, an thin 
swally’d ’em up. Aiche great wave saam’d to laap into the ould 
Sayflower, like a hungry wolf into a cradle, showing his white 
taath, an saazing his halpless prey. There was Tom Cregan, your 
cousin, that I spake o’, Eyley, a hard fate it was, poor Cregan ! he 
was a Strang an a bould swimmer, but — howsomiver it’s not I 
thdt ’ll harrish up your faalings, Eyley — he was a good lad, pace 
to him I say.” — Eyley Murphy had buried her face in her hands, 
and was not the only person present, who had become deeply 
affected at Peter’s narration. — “ A great mony,” continued Peter 
Healy, “ tried to raach the foortap or the main ; na aisy matter it 
was ; a poor felly wud craap alang the rigging, houlding on for liis 
sowl, for life is swaat, ye all know, an whin he ’d git half a way, 
maybe, or moor, or was jist riddy to cotch hoult o’ the tap itself, 
the wave wud kim up wid him, an he so waak, that he wud let go 
the shroud he was houlding, but the saut saa wud find him anather. 
— I was able to look round an saa who was lift upon the wrack. 
There was poor Dolly McCabe, Jerry’s widdy, she was barn hi 
County Cark, but liv’d wid Jerry haar in Lim’rick, twalve years nos 
moor. She was immigritting wid her brother Larry McQuaid. 


204 


AN IRISH HEART. 


Poor 30 wl, she was a wrack herself, so tatter’d an bate by the 
'.vavts, an she was houlding on to a ringbolt, wid one hand, an sup- 
porting her two little gorsiMC? w’id the tother. She was widin 
spiking o’ me ; an so, whin 1 got a eanvanient opportunity, betune 
til', waves, I call d to her an ask’d where was McQuaid. She 
shook her head, poor crathur, an fowl’d up her eyes, but she cud 
na spake, manning that he was gane owerboord, an indaad he was. 
A kail o’ rope was naar to me, so I sucsaded in cutting aff a good 
pace for a lashing, an throw d it to the poor sowl, an moor nor a 
fool was I for that same. The poor widdy, ye saa, had but two 
Hands onyhow ; an wid one she clang, for daar life, to the ringbult, 
an hild the poor child her wid the tother. How thin could she saaze 
the rope, that I was sich a barbarous villin as to throw to her, jist 
to make her moor sinsible o’ her own dissolute condition ; though 
it ’s myself wud ha’ bin bang’d sure wid that idintical rope, afore I 
v/ud ha maan’d sich a maan thing as that, ye know, to onny poor 
widdy. But quaar enough it was, that rope floated ower to leward, 
an was saaz’d by ould Barty Morrow, who had wark’d his way up 
to the hoith o’ the lee lanyards, but was so waak, that he cud nohow 
craap ower into the main tap. He confissed to me since, that ’l v/aa 
naarly up wid him, whin he raach’d the rope ; but he lash'd his poor 
buddy wid it to the lanyard onyhow. The saazing o’ it braath’d 
life into him ; an what ’s quaarer nor that, this same rope it was, that 
was the dith o’ that mon, Barty Morrow, a yaar after. For he was 
so plaas’d wid the rope that sav’d him, that he must nades save the 
rope. Whin he was bang’d i’ the new country for murther, it was 
agraable to his faalings, to be pit up wid the ould rope, an a raal 
oblaaging jintilmon, the High Sherry o’ New York, tied it dacentl ' 
aboot his neck, an ould Barty Morrow was bang’d presasely accar 
ding to his wushes.” — “I remimber Dolly McCabe right wall,” 
said Bob Finnigan’s wife ; “ was the poor crathur sav’d, Pether 
Healy?” — “An ye wull have it thin,” said Peter with a deep 
sigh ; “ I was thinking to laad ye away fro’ the finish o’ the poor 
widdy, by tilling ye o' ould Barty Morrow’s priservation by- the same 
rope that bang'd him a yaar after. He, that was sav'd wid a rope 
was bang'd wid a rope, much like the ould saws it is, what comes 
by the wather, goes by the wather ; an what comes ower the divil's 
back goes anunder his belly. — It’s o’ the poor widdy an the 
childher, that ye ’d haar me spake. It ’s your wush an yoin 
wull, Betty Finnigan, an ye ’ll not be after blaaming me if it raur- 
liiers your draams. But I ’ll tak a dhrap o’ whiskey afore I begins ; 
for after Ise tould it, I ’ll not do the like agin till I slaap aff the reminv 
Urance o’ that poor sowl.” — After Peter had taken a glass, to ena* 


AN IRISH HEART. 


205 


hie him to tell the story the better, and his companions, or the 
majority, had done the same thing to enable them to hear it the bet- 
ter, Peter Healy recommenced as follows : — “ It ’s rather warm 
drinking an spaaking so lang in this snug room it is, an I ’ll jist 
fling aff my coat. — The shtarm was netting abating, an the waves 
was gitling bigger, an claan swaaps they made, ye may belaave me 
Yourself Betty Finnigan, an Eyley Murphy, knows wall enough 
what a swash an swirl there ’ll be i’ the drain bax, whin ye ’s pow- 
eiing in ’t your big tub o’ suds ; an how an aggshell nor a praty skin 
nor ony sich thrifle wull bounce up an down, an be whisk’d ar 
twirl’d haals ower head like a bit butter in a shtirraboot. Jist sup- 
pose a drain bax as big as the ould Sayflower, an a tub o’ wather to 
match, an all the powers o’ the saa to throw it aboord. A mon as 
fat aS Johnny Mulligan, the brewer, tass’d into sich a whirlypool, 
wud be na moor nor a praty skin or the like o’ that. — The dee was 
aboot done but the shtarm kipt on. Coult it was indaad ; an, though 
it was me that had lash’d myself loight enough to the lanyards, I 
began to faar I should na saa the light o’ anather dee, aven if the 
ould Sayflower shud kaap together. How the poor widdy hild her 
grip o’ the ringbult, the Lard only knows. ’Twas love an faar for 
the poor childher, it was, that gi’ the lone woman the strangth o’ 
foor men.” Peter Healy by this time had lashed the hearts and 
the thoughts of his hearers to himself and his story, as effectually as 
he himself had been lashed to the lanyards during the tempest. 
There was no longer any frivolous disposition to interrupt him in 
his narrative. The group w^as gathered round him, most of them 
with their faces as thoroughly bathed with salt water, as were those 
of poor Dolly McCabe and her children upon that terrible day. 
Even Eyley Murphy’s light heart was thoroughly subdued. She 
sat upon a dresser, for the room was small ; and, as Finnigan said in 
a whisper to his wife, “ there wor cheers enough but too much 
company.” Eyley was sitting with her body bent forward, her 
elbows on her knees, and her feet resting on the top of Peggy 
McNamarra’s chair, the wife of Michael, the broken tailor, one of 
those, w'ho intended to emigrate. Her mouth was wide open, the 
tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, and her hands were ccntinu- 
aJly employe! in throwing back her locks of bright yellow hair 
which interrupted her clear vision of the speaker ; the alternate and 
unceasing action of her hands resembling that of some skilful pei*- 
former upon the double jews-harp. — “ An for why not Pether,” 
cried Eyley sharply, stamping her right foot upon the top of Peg 
gy’s chair, “ for why not did n't ye rin an halp the poor crathur, an 
you a mon P’ “ Don.’t talk to mo that a way, Eyloy Murphy.’^ 
VOL. I. 18 


206 


AN IRISH HEART. 


answered Peter, rubbing^ his eyes with his coat sleeve ; “ bad enough 
it was 1 wush’d to help the poor sowl ; but an ye was lash'd to the 
tap o’ the church staple, wud ye be after jumping aff to halp a poor 
buddy, that was falling to the ground, your own self, Eyley? — 
Wall, ye saa the dee was gitting moor darker, but ye cud saa ony- 
thing claar enough, for the moon was ris thin. ’T was an up an 
down wind it was, blowing like crazy for a minnit, an thin taking 
brith. I was looking at Dolly McCabe an the childher, whin the 
wind was still, an I heer’d a splash in the wather as naar to me as 
y’ are yourself, Rory O’Donnohue. ’T was ould Foster as they 
call’d him, one o’ the crew. He had cut aff the rim o’ his tai-paulin, 
by that same token I know’d him. He fell fro’ the main tap drunk, 
into the wather ; he ris up both hands, an hild on to his jug to the 
last. The saa did n’t tak lang to do for ould Foster, he was swal- 
ly’d in a minnit he was. — The wind saam’d to be shifting, an I 
cri'd out to the poor widdy, to kaap up a heart an hould on. She 
jist ris her head, an I saad she was gitting waaker an waaker. The 
wind wark’d round fro’ narth to aist to be sure, but an iller wind 
was it nor afore, for the waves, ye saa, kipt rowling an tumbling the 
ould course a lang time, but the Sayflower tuk a new diriction, so 
the wather kim in through the broken bulwarks on the starboord 
bow. There was n’t a saa after that, but made a claan braach owe'r 
the poor widdy an the childher. I saad a great wave jist riddy to 
brik, an I call’d out to her to grip the ring, an hould on ; — down it 
rush’d upon us, — I haar’d Dolly shraik, — an whin the wather 
was out fro’ my eyes, I look’d that a way, an the childher was gane. 
Och ! Marcy ! how I wush’d for the darkest night i’ the warld ! for 
the braad, bright moon show’d me the hull misery. I saad the leetle 
crathurs swirl’d round an knocked agin one thing nor anather, an 
thin harried aff to etarnity, on the tap o’ the great wave. Him that 
was a waakly child saam’d did ; but the bigger gorsoon, Jerry it 
was, nam’d for his father, he was a strong lad, an he struggled a 
bit; but he was na moor nor a feather, in a gale o’ wind, he 
wasn’t.” — “David, agra, come close to me,” said Kathleen 
Mashee, almost unconsciously, to her little boy. — “ Dolly McCabe,” 
continued Peter, “ was a good wife to Jerry, an a graaving vdddy 
to him she was, an she saam’d to live after, only for Jerry’s child- 
her, nor nothing moor. I saa the murthering proof o’ that, ye ’ll 
belaave me ; for, no sooner was the childher taken fro’ her that a 
way, than she lit go lier hoult, an gave up her maak spirit, an was 
lifted away upon the nixt wave. — The dark clouds soon after were 
gathering ower the moon I was gitting coulder an had ate netting 
now foT a lang time; A Kind o’ g^aapy faaling was (»mmg orwor 


AN IRISH HEART. 


207 


an all the bind o’ my buddy saam’d to be going hum to the 
heart o’ me, for the last time. Jist thin Ise heer’d a small voice 
calling to me, so it saam’d, ‘ Pether’ it sed. So I listen’d, an not 
liitaring it immadiately, I thought ’twas owing to my baing waak an 
dispeerited. But soon it saam'd to come agin. ‘Pether Healy! 

— Pether Healy ! — Pether Healy !’ — ’T was a sart o’ a woman- 
ish voice.” — “ ’T was the Banshee !” said Peggy McNamarra. — 
“ The Banshee !” replied Peter, “ what sart o’ a Banshee wud that 
be, an I alive an at your sarvice Peggy entirely, at this prisint time? 
n:) it was n’t. It was Carrol Sweeny, that thaaf, the leetle watch- 
loaker, that was the tinnant o’ moor min in Lim’rick nor he iver ped 
'Jnt to ; ’twas that same I till ye. He was nearer to me nor your- 
rieif, an I niver know’d it. .He was rowl’d up i’ the ould sail 
an he know’d it was I, bekase he haar'd me spaking to the poor 
wddy ; an I know'd it was himself by this token, that he till’d me 
so. Whin I sed, ‘ Who ’s spaking?’ — ‘ It ’s Carrol Sweeny,’ sed 
he. — ‘ An is 't yourself?’ sed I. — ‘Ye may jist say that,’ sed he. 

— ‘ An what ’s your wull?’ sed I. — Said he, ‘ I confiss t’ ye,’ — - 
an thin he stapp’d. — As he was the big thaaf that he was, I raaly 
hdaav’d, as there was na praast aboord, he was going to confiss his 
offinces. ‘Wull’ sed I, ‘ Carrol, mak a claan brist.’ — ‘Pether’ 
sed he, ‘ I confiss t’ ye, Ise faar’d my bit chist o’ watch-maker’s tools 
wull be purty much ruin’d by the saut wather, entirely.’ — Faable 
as I was, I gi’ it to him. ‘ Hut !’ sed I, ‘ ye riglar thaaf, that y’ are, 
is it in ye mon to be spaking this a way ! Y’ are jist in etarnity,’ 
sed I, ‘ an they ’ll na be wanting ye to tinker their timekaapers 
there, Ise rickon.’ 

“ The wind had naarly gane ; an by the brick o’ dee, the saa was 
aisier. We began to git a glimpse o’ ache other, the small sprink- 
ling o’ live buddies that was spared. The captin an mate was 
drownded in the cabin. Niver did I cry, ‘ Lard be good t’ us,’ fro’ 
the very pit o’ my heart, so as I did thin, whin I saad Jack Coffin 
an Abel .Tudson alive an coming down fro’ the foor tap. ‘ Healy,’ 
sed Jack Coffin, whin he saad me, ‘ Gad has spared ye it saams.’ 
‘ Indaad he has sir,’ sed I. Wall’ sed he, ‘ Healy, we must try 
to save ourselves. Where ’s the braad-axe?’ — He was thin coming 
down the shrouds, an had got jist down so far as Jo Muncrief, who 
had hash’d himself i’ the rigging. ‘ ’T was Muncrief had the braad- 
axe last,’ sed I, ‘ he ’ll spake t’ ye sir, where he pit it.’ — ‘ No, he 
won’t, Healy,’ sed Jack Coffin, ‘ he ’ll spake no moor.’ — Ye saa he 
wa-s did. So they kim down an began to hunt for the braad-axe, an 
Carrol Sweeny, that I niver respicted afore, was the mon that found 
it. 1 had got tobsb frd’ the lofiking, an wd tuk turns tb cut awaj 


208 


AN IRISH HEART. 


the masts. By the same token, it was, that ould Barty Morrow a* 
the rist, what was alive, very prudently crapt down fro’ the tap. So 
we cut away the weather lanyards first, an as the masts wud na go 
ower, we used the braad-axe a bit, an prisintly away wint the two 
mast wid a crash, ower the side, an the ould Sayflower sot up 
straight agin upon the wather. Waak as we was, we begun to 
think o’ the pumps agin, an to our great joy was it, Carrol Sweeny, 
who was diving after his chist o’ watch-maker’s tools, brought up a 
bit o’ baaf, an a small sack o’ seed praties, that Jo Muncrief, pace 
to him, was bringing out to plant i’ the new country ; an as one c’ 
the wather-casks was onhart, we had a maal o’ raw mate an praties, 
an a dhrink o’ wather ; one praty a pace an a bit mate that Jack 
Coffin cut aff for ache o’ the company. Tharty-foor out o’ moor 
nor one hunder an saxty sowls! An it wasn’t for the hunger o’ 
starvation, we cud n’t ate a bit or drank a bit, for jist as we was 
pitting the first pace o’ raw mate int’ our mouths, there comes float- 
ing out o’ the foorcastle that poor young thing, Judy O’Keefe, jist 
married she was, too sick to laave her cot, an Morris, her husband, 
wud shtay wid her to the last. So whin the wather rush’d in, they 
was both drownded, an they was lock’d in ache ather’s arms, whin 
they floated out togither. — Wall, we filt a bit stranger for that 
maal, maan though it was, so we wint to pumping and pitting up a 
jerrymast. We hadn’t wark’d moor nor an hour afore Judson 
shouted ‘ land ahead !’’ An indaad it was so, but it puzzled ’em to 
till what land it was. Howsomiver, the wind, what there was, and 
the tide like enough, brought us naarer and naarer t’ it ; and aboct 
foor o'clack the ould Sayflower wint head first, thump, upon a great 
white baach. ’T was myself that rin straight to the ind o’ the bow- 
sprit, that raach’d up ower the shore, and right glad was I, for I 
had n’t bin so far up the country for naar a hunder dees. But, I 
saad nathing moor nor sand ivery way, only a shmall bit cabin, naar 
the place we rin ashore. — ^‘Ist Amirica?’ sed I. — ‘Aye, aye,’ 
said Jack Coffin, ‘ it ’s Cape Cod,’ sed he, ‘an ye may .bliss the 
Lard, that the Sayflower did n’t come on wid a strang wind and a 
hivy saa.’ — ‘ What ’s that bit cabin, Maaster Coffin V sed I; that 
same was the only habitation I saad amang the haaps o’ sand. 
’T was widin a praty’s throw o’ myself. So he toult me ’t was pit 
jist there for the poor sailors in distress. How they cud till sa pre- 
sasely where the oult Sayflower wud rin ashore, an pit the bit house 
jist there, the likes o’ me niver cud till. 

“ After we had risted ower night, i’ the leetle cabin, we waded 
mony miles through the daap sand. If we had n’t ate up poor Jo 
Muacrief’s seed, pratiea, he cuda’t got ony kind o’ a crap ’em 


AN IRISH HEART. 


209 


jist there, ye may depind. After great fatague we raach’d the 
town, as they call’d it. I niver saad onything so maan in all Ire- 
land. Wall, ye see, I was my own mon, in a fraa country onyhow. 
There ’s not a bit soil widin two hunder miles o’ Lim’rick sa maan 
as what I saad in Amiriky. Mony a mile was it we wint amost up 
to our knaas i’ the sand, an not a mullen stalk did we saa, upon the 
tap o’ which a poor broken-hearted grasshopper might sit, wid taars 
in his eyes, an charp all dee aboot netting to ate. Whin we got to 
the cintre o’ the town, an ’twas not Pether Healy cud till where 
that was, I saad a shmall shebeen it saam’d. 1 walk’d in, an says 
I to a quaar leetle felly, that was tinding, — ‘ a gill o’ your whiskey 
if ye plase.’ Wall, instid o’ drawing the liquor, he stud, showing 
his white taath, an for all the warld, grinning to me, like a Cheshire 
cat. ‘ A dhrap o’ the crathur sir,’ says I, an if I did n’t draw up a 
bit, an look a leetle offinded, it was n’t my own self onyhow. So, 
upon that, he opens a windy, an bawls out, ‘ Ginral ! — Ginral ! — 
Square Taber ! won’t ye come in, haar ’s a customer wants so’thing.’ 

— ‘ Ax him to tarry, ’'sed that other, ‘ till I drive a nail or two in 
Doctor Coggin’s cult’s fut.’ Na moor nor two minnits it was, afore 
in comes a felly, what look’d a dale moor like a blacksmith, nor ony 
ginral I iver sot eyes on in Ireland. — ‘ What ’s your wushP says 
he. — ‘A gill o’ whiskey was it,’ says I. — ‘We kaap a timperarce 
shtoor,’ says he. ‘ Wall,’ says I, ‘I doesn’t care aboot taking 
ony o’ that to-dee,’ for I didn’t thin comprehind his maaning, ‘ but, 
I ’d like a dhrap o’ brandy or porther, an ye hasn’t the whiskey.’ 

— Then he, an the small spalpeen laugh’d out, to show their da- 
cency, like a couple o’ bull calves that had jist last their raison. Sj 
I walk’d out an tried three other shebeens, an got the same bad luck 
presasely Whin I ax’d for a dhrap o’ whiskey, ache one sed he 
kipt a timperance shtoor. Jack Coffin, whin I saad him agin, toult 
me all aboot it : sed he, ‘ Ye ’ll not find a dhrap o’ shpirit for sale in 
the hull county.’ Think o’ that, Robert Finnigan, an that same a 
fraa country into the bargin. Bad luck t’ it, say I. — It ’s moor nor 
a month’s wark I had for notting, trying to git a leetle wark for ony 
wages at all at all. I got a place at last wid a widdy leddy, but I 
did n’t shtay moor nor a couple o’ hours. I wint to her sarvice 
aboot nine o’clack i’ the marning, an the maid rin out aboot twalve, 
to say the ould leddy cud n’t imploy me na langer. I ax’d if I had 
offinded her ; the young woman sed i.o, but her maastress had bin 
raading an account o’ an Irish murther, an wudn’t have ony o’ my 
country slaaping anunder her roof, for the hull warld. Bad luck 
eaam’d to shtick co the back o’ me like a pitch plaster onyhow. At 
last I kim upon a raal jintilmon, a lawyer he was. I haar’d him 

VOL. I. 18 * 


210 


AN IRISH HEART. 


defi/id a countrymon o’ ours for staaling a cloak ; an tie did the thing 
so dacently, an spake sich nate an swate things o’ onld Ireland, that 
I rin up to him, whin he was laaving the coort, an toult him I shud 
like to sarve sich a mon as his honor, for jist no wages at all. So 
he rin me up an down wid a hawk’s eye ; ‘ What ’s your name, 
sir r sed he. — ‘ Pether Healy, plase your honor,’ sed 1. — ‘ Wall,’ 
sed he, ‘ your tarms are party raisonable entirely, so ye may come 
to-morrow marning.’ So I wint ye saa, an did my hist for his 
honor, not forgitting myself, o’ coorse, as I was to have no riglai 
wages. After the first waak, he began to hint ; an ivry dee, mooi 
nor liss, he kipt a hinting, till I lift him ; an I niver resaaved a 
single farthing o’ him, that is, o’ his own fraa wall.” — “Good 
Peiher,” said Eyley Murphy, who had quite recovered her spirits, 
“what was that same the lawyer kipt a hinting?” — “Och!” 
replied Peter Healy, “ he had a nagurish way wid him, for a jintil- 
aion, an he kipt a hinting all sorts o’ dishagraable things.” — “ An 
have ye purtiklar objictions, Pether, to tilling a buddy what he kipt 
a hinting aboot?” rejoined Eyley Murphy, with a waggish laugh. 
“ Not in the laast Eyley,” answered Peter, “ he toult me, the villin 
that he was, that I was a raal Irish liar an a thaaf into the bargin. 
After that I had too much shpirit to sarve him ony longer. I wull 
ufdy say, that if Amiriky is n’t the maanest country in the warld, 
nvy name ’s not Pether Healy ; so I ’ll jist pit on my coat, if ye 
plase, an haar what ye can say Maaster McCloskey to the con- 
yaary.” 

“ Thanks to ye, Pether,” said John McCloskey, “ for ye ’ve 
loult us an afficting story onyhow ; that ’s na’ to be contradeected 
na lime o’ dee ; an maybe it ’s no less nor the truth, the hull o’ it. 
Nivertheliss ye ’ll forgi’ me for tilling ye the plain thing, — ye knows 
na moor aboot Amiriky, nor my oult cap haar, nor so much as that 
nather ; bekase ye saa that same has bin lagues ower the new coun- 
try, whin it ’s yourself has been inches maybe. ’T was bitter luck 
nor yourself we had. Eighteen dees maarely was we fro’ Cark to 
the city o’ New Yark, an a most agraable time we had, ye may be 
sure. Thraa Roman Catholic praasts was aboord, beside foor young 
jintilmen, Jisuits they was. They kipt their own sacret purty wall 
onyhow. Father Mundowny lit myself int’it, whin we had bin 
taking a dhrap porther togither. Ye 'd no praast aboord the Say- 
tlower, I think ye sed ; maybe your throubles was prosaJing fro’ 
that same. — The city o’ New Yark is one o’ the finest cities i’ the 
warld, 1 ’m thinking ; an it ’s much the same wid the other great 
cities i’ the new country, an there ’s plenty o’ ’em. Mate is chaaper 
a dale nor it is in Ireland, an so is maal. Praties grows, whiles 


AN IRISH HEART. 


211 


y’ are slaaping, o’ their own fraa wull. As for the crathur, a mon 
Uiay be as gay as a bag full o’ fleas an did drunk into the bargin for 
the maarest thrifle. Ye can’t go a rad, mon, widout rinning agin a 
shebeen ; an, bekase land jist in the city is so daar, an there ’s no 
room for sa mony shebeens, as the public good requires, they pit 
moor nor the half o’ ’em anunder ground. There ye ’ll git the 
crathur in all its farms. ’T is n’t in sich a fraa country as that, ye ’ll 
saa a poor felly, like your warthy uncle, Mr. Finnigan, that ’s in 
glowry, lang ago, rinning for daar life wid his still in his arms, pur- 
sued by a bloodthirsty exciseman, or some o’ his maan understhrap- 
pers. It ’s a respictable bisness in Amiriky to mak the crathur, an 
to sill it, na impachement o’ your own calling haar Mr. Finnigan. 
Raal gadly paple it is, o’ the most sober lives an conversations, what 
sills it an maks it too. Dacons mak the bist, an they thinks the 
Sabbadee is jist the time to mak the suparior quality.” — “John 
McCloskey, did ye say dagons mak it?” inquired Eyley Murphy. — 
“ JNTo I didn’t, I sed dacons mak it — whoosh! ye saucy calleen,” 
continued McCloskey, perceiving Eyley’s meaning, as the tittering 
of tne women attracted his ear, “ ye tak’s a dhrap now an thin your- 
self, maybe.” — “What sart o’ dacons wull they be sir,” said 
Kathleen Mashee, “ to forgit Gad’s law, an mak the crathur o’ the 
Sabbadee ? It ’s the blissed Jasus that repates the law, thou shalt 
do na manner o’ wark, thou an thy son, an thy daughter, thy cattle 
an the shtranger that is widin thy gates.” — “Wall, wall,” said 
McCloskey. “ It ’s jist this a way they manage it ; they lights a 
great fire o’ Saturdee night, in the shtill-’ouse, an it ’s the fire 
sure that warks o’ the Sabbadee onyhow, an not the dacons nor 
their sarvants. Whin its all o’ a blaze, ’twud be moor like wark- 
ing to pit it out nor to lit it barn. Na doot, there ’s some felly, that 
throws on a bit stick, to kaap the fire, an maybe, he taks a dhrap o’ 
the crathur, now an thin, jist to saa an it ’s naar being a good crathur 
or no. Now, an it ’s the Lard’s wull he shud do so, it ’s na other 
buddy's bisness sure ; an it ’s na the Lard’s wull, why thin the felly, 
that same, is the Divil’s sarvant o’ coorse, an not onyway the 
dacon’s.” — “ An ye ’d bin a lawyer, John,” said Rory O'Doniio- 
hue, “ ye ’d got poor Pether aff at his thrial, there ’s no doot o’ it.” 
— “ Thanks to ye, Maaster Rory, for your good opinion o’ my poor 
abeelities. It ’s na aisy for an oult dog to larn new thricks ye know. 
An I was n’ your own yaars, I might be after gitting an insight o’ 
the Jaw. ’T'wud come to me o’ its own accard, I ’m thinking, for 
there, ’s a }>laiii conniction betune that same an my own profission ; 
an ’twud l*e convanient to me in my dalings. Ise doing purty wall 
oowsoiaiyei. It ’s aisier pitting aif an ould broken winded ’orse i' 


212 


AN IRISH HEART. 


the new country nor it is in Ireland. — Maybe, those amang ye, 
that ’s half a mind to mak a bit thrial o’ Amiriky, faars it ’s ail 
strancrers ye ’s goirig to find there. Jisl the contraary it is. Whiix 
the ship we wint ower in hault in to the wharf, ye ’d thought, axi 
ye ’d bin there, that ye was in Cark or Dublin, for all the warld ; 
sich powers o’ Irish men an Irish women were crowding down, to 
saa oult acquaintances, an haar news fro’ the Emerald Isle, an to 
tinder their sarvices. Our paple are growing fast i’ that country, 
depind. What with their own incraase an the constant immigritting 
fro’ all parts o’ Ireland, there ’s na doot, in the minds o’ sinsible 
calkillaters, but we may possiss the hull country one dee. An 
isn't it that wud be na moor nor it shud be after alll Ye saa the 
Amirikans staal ’d that same, ivry inch o’ it, fro’ the rid men. 
They wud .staal away the poor Indians’ brains wid the aid o’ the 
crathur, an thin fix a quar’ll on ’em, aboot a hatchet, or bit iron, cr 
shtring o’ bades ; thin go to war, an baat the poor rid fellies, bam 
their haggards an wigwams, an the like o’ that. After baing dnv 
back i’ the wilderness, the poor crathurs wud sue for pace, an mak 
a thraty, an sill their land an the graves o’ their forbares, for jist 
much gunpowther an whiskey as the Amirikans plased to gi’ ’em. 
So they staal’d away their tirritory. An maybe it ’s Gad’s wiul, 
that we shud staal it fro’ them after all ; an if it be his wull, there ’s 
na country 't wud be more agraable to staal ; that ’s all I wull say. 
[ '11 be plased, homsomiver, to spake to ony quistions ye wull pit 
to me aboot Amiriky.” 

“ I wud jist ask ye, John McCloskey,” said Betsy Finnigan, 
“ aren’t there na protestant' Irish i’ the new country?” — “ Hiriiics 
ye maan, — yis, like enough ; — but I big your pardon, I remimber 
now ye’s that way o’ thinking yourself.” — “What ye spake o’ 
the chapeness o’ maal an mate’s incouraging indaad it is,” said 
Patrick Murphy, “but how is ’t wid sich other shmall matters 
a poor buddy must have?” — “ He ’s in na hurry to wait lang for 
your reply,” said Eyley ; “it’s o’ the crathur he wud haar ye 
s])ake ; for the warld ’s sake gi’ him a spaady answer McCloske).” 
---“ Swaat bad luck t’ ye, Eyley Murphy,” said her husband, 
“ an your ligs were as lang as your rid rag, ye ’d na want shtilts 
ony how.” Eyley was uncommonly short, and she joined heartily 
in the laugh, which had been thus turned upon herself. — “ 'I'he 
good crathur,” replied McCloskey, “is as daar a cra.iluir in one 
sense, in Amiriky as ’lis in Ireland, but it ’s a chaap nraibur i^'m. 
Ye niver teest the excise in your whiskey, though ye has lo pay 
for ’t onyhow in ouit Ireland. The liquor ’s na the in tter tor vbat. 
Now i’ the fraa country, whin the crathur crapes into your st.'^niach, 


AN IRISH HEART. 


213 


it ’s more a^aable, bekase it ’s a fiaa crathur, an na bothered wi* 
taxation.” — “John McCloskey,” said Neddy Faden the tailor, 
“ W'lJl ye be so oblaaging as to sittle a small doot, that ’s perplexing 
iiiC, bekase o’ the contradeectory shtories aboot Lim'rick? Ould 
McNaney, that sarved under Bargain it was, he toult me yisterdee 
the new country’s na place for a mon o’ my profission ; why he ses 
ho ’f. saan the raal Arnirikaners, by hunders, moor naked nor iver 
they was barn.” — “ Och ! the wheezing oult crowker that he is,” 
replied McCloskey; “ he maans to desaave ye, Neddy. It ’s o’ the 
eavagers na doot, that the oult felly spakes to ye. Na faar for ony 
mon o’ your line ; but Ise jist gi’ ye a pace o’ advice : the paple o’ 
the new country chaafely are not maarly sharp, but paked they are, 
more nor ony nadle. So ye ’ll be careful in respict o’- your cabbag- 
ing, Neddy, to do it na so boultly, as ya’ve bin accustomed haar in 
Ireland.” — “ Thanks to ye John, for mintioning that same ; did ye 
nolish the cut o’ coats an braaches whin ye was there?” — “I 
can’t say that I did sa very purtiklar, Neddy ; but, wid your shaars, 
there ’s na faar o’ the like o’ you. — An now if ony o’ ye ’s a mind 
for th’ ixparimint, there ’s a fine ship o’ thraa hunder tons goes nixt 
Vi aak fro’ Cark t’ Amiriky dirict ; and so, as it ’s jist after an ’orse 
L-e going to daal for wid Jerry McGaw the baaf butcher, I ’ll be 
taking my laave. Shtip this a way Mr. Finnigan an ye plase, 
W6 ’ll be sittling for the crathur.” — McCloskey departed, leaving 
his auditors variously disposed. Thaddy Mashee, prompted by his 
natural disposition for novelty, was strongly inclined to emigrate ; 
but the more cautious counsels of Kathleen persuaded him to 
remain and try his fortune in Limerick. “ We ’ll be young enough 
Thaddy,” said she, “ to go ower a yaar hince nor moor, an it be 
naadful. But, whin we ’re claan gane, ’t will na be sa aisy maybe, 
to git back an try your hand at the carpinter’s thrade haar in 
Lim’rick. Howsomeiver, an your heart ’s i’ the mather, daar 
Thaddy, Ise go alang wid ye onyhow.” 

Robert Finnigan’s wife had conceived a friendship for Kathleen, 
partly perhaps because they were of the same opinion in religious 
matters, but mainly on account of her attractive and amiable quali- 
ties. By the aid of Betsy Finnigan, the Mashees were enabled to 
obtain .some cheap apartments in her neighborhood. Thaddy was 
siicitessfnl in his efforts to associate himself, on profitable terms, 
v/itn a reripectable carpenter ; from whom in the course of twelve 
monltis acquired an unusual amount of skill and information. — 
David McC ready was now about four years of age, and he was 
coitStiiiitiv expressing his wish for such a playmate, in the shape of 
a brother, or sister, as little Bob Finnigan had ; and his wishes were 


214 


AN IRISH HEART. 


abundantly realized, for, about this period, his mother ^ave biTth to 
twins, one of which died on the second day after its birth. Tl-o 
otner, a healthy little girl, she was enabled to rear. Thaddy ii?xi 
work enough ; both himself and Kathleen as well as their little ones 
were in the possession of excellent health ; she had about her a littio 
circle of protestant friends and acquaintances ; and ample opportu- 
nities in Limerick for the enjoyment of religious worship, according 
to her faith. Yet Kathleen was not entirely happy. In the lan- 
guage of an Italian proverb, “ There is a skeleton in every house.'*- 
Love, devoted and undying, never took stronger hold upon the fibiea 
of a woman’s heart than upon hers. She lived, next to God and 
eternity, for her husband and her children ; and he was not deficient 
in a deep-rooted affection for them. But the heart is deceitful above 
measure. Thaddy’s affections began to be divided between Kathleen 
and another object. In the society of his fond wife, he became more 
and more silent and abstracted, from day to day. This rival that 
was insidiously stealing away his heart from its legitimate proprie 
tress, levied increasing demands upon his time ; and, in return fo) 
the pleasures of sin, exacted from the hands of this infatuated wor- 
shipper the sweat of his brow, that product of his daily toil, wi:h 
which he had hitherto supported his devoted wife and dependcr.t 
children. No word of direct crimination had ever escaped the lips 
of Kathleen. Now and then, her silent tear, or unbidden sigh, 
operating upon a heart sufficiently conscious of its obliquity, would 
drive him to a defence or palliation, before any charge had been 
preferred against him. Anticipating, from the hurried meal or 
other circumstance, a separation for the long winter’s evening, she 
would sometimes say, “Daar mon, an ya’ll shtay at hum, we’ll 
try to make it a plisant fireside onyhow, an the gorsoon’s got out 
his chuck straas d’ye mind; leetle David says, ye don't play wid 
him as ye used to, Thaddy.” — On such occasions, he would some- 
times forego his anticipated enjoyment elsewhere, and remain at 
home, with a reluctance, however, imperfectly concealed. Still 
Kathleen had no occasion for jealousy, in the common acceptation 
of that word. She knew well enough that Thaddy loved her alone 
of all women. No human being, as she believed, and with good 
reason, could estrange the affections of her husband, or induce him 
to forget his marriage vows, or shrink from his domestic respon- 
sibilities. What then had produced this apparent alienation ? What 
had taught him to turn away, night after night, from Ids own fire- 
side, and to prefer any society to that of a fond wife aud the off- 
spring of their mutual affection 1 In the words of Kathleen liersrlf, 
when justifying or at least palliating his conduct, in the very lace 
even of his own self-crimination, — “ It was notting but the crathur.** 


AN rarSH HEART, 


21 


By this ingenions distinction, Kathleen transferred tne criminality 
of drunkenness from the idol of her soul to an agency, beyond the 
pale of her husband’s responsibility. If this agreeable self-delusion 
should seem inconsistent with her apparent good sense, upon other 
occasions, we can offer no other solution of the mystery, than such 
os has been transmitted from age to age, in the proverb, that love is 
blind. Kathleen’s was not only blind, but deaf, for she would hear 
nothing to Thaddy’s disparagement ; and dumb, for she replied not 
to his occasional abuse ; or, if ever, by two brief words, “ Daar 
Thaddy!" uttered in tones of gentleness and love. 

“ The Oralhur!’’' What a comprehensive synonyme for the 
Devil’s vicegerent upon earth ! The elixir of misery ! In fashion- 
able life, among the opulent and the luxurious, drunkenness, and it is 
by no means an utter stranger in those elevated walks, comes not 
in that tremendous shape, in which it haunts and scourges its 
wretched victims, in the habitations of the poor. To those who 
dwell in palaces, or who are, busily engaged in commercial or pro- 
fessional pursuits, the drunken father or the drunken child, the 
drunken husband or the drunken wife, though an object of loathing 
and disgust, brings not the whole fabric of domestic happiness to the 
ground. The drunken inmate, in whatever relation, can be per- 
mitted to put on and sleep off the brute, in a separate apartment. 
Expensive pleasures, and splendid castles, and gorgeous furniture, 
and glittering equipages, and the multifarious occupations of life, 
bury the recollections of such domestic afflictions : and, when they 
rise again, and undoubtedly they will, again the successive tide of 
this world’s affairs comes speedily over them, and again they are 
forgotten. — It is not so with the poor. A single apartment fre- 
quently contains one household at least. There is no escape from 
the drunkard, when he comes. No pleasures invite the wife and 
the children of the drunken husband and father, from the scene of 
mi'^ery ; no foreign occupations afford them relief ; no ray of hope 
bears a reviving promise of betterment to-morrow ; the drunkard 
hiirself, that poor, tottering, broken reed, is their only stay ; they 
are not permitted to look for any other, of the present world, so 
long as the conjugal and parental relations remain ; it is not possible 
to flee away and be at rest ; there is no power of oblivion but in the 
grave ; and even that, cold, and damp, and dreary, as it is, is often 
sought by fervent prayer, as an outlet for the wretched sufferer 
from a domestic hell. 

The bustle and excitement of Limerick, had a direct and unfavor- 
.ibie influence upon Thaddy Mashee, who had passed his days in 
^eat obscurity before. Water finds its level not more certainly, 


216 


AN IRISH HEART. 


than a wild Irishman, upon entering a populous town, discovers that 
congenial circle, in which it is most agreeable to his feelings to abide. 
Thaddy, soon after his arrival in Limerick, found himself in the 
society of certain individuals, whose chief occupation was drinking 
and diversion ; and, if we may be permitted to subdivide the second 
branch of their employment, this diversion consisted partly of gam- 
bling and fighting ; and of the latter Thaddy had an ample dividend. 
It is characteristic of an Irishman, that, when sober, he is generous, 
obliging, affectionate, and humane, — but, when under the craihur'’i 
dominion, he is of all known animals, the most pugnacious, fero- 
cious and unrelenting. The opium smoker, of Sumatra, and other 
islands of the East, is not more likely to murder friend or foe, with- 
out the least discrimination. Thaddy soon became an established 
inmate of Dennis Queeny’s shebeen. In process of time, no man 
was more likely to be missed in his place, of a winter’s evening, 
than Thaddy. If it was determined “ to flake an ugly felly^'’^ 
or io proceed upon any other “ divilment,'' no man was more 
essential to the enterprise than Thad. Mashee. Thaddy’s thought- 
less and profligate associates were chiefly catholics. We mean not 
to imply, that protestants are exempted from the degrading condition 
of 'pot-service, to which all vassals of the crathur are subjected. 
But we regret to perceive, that, with a few respectable exceptions, 
which we delight to acknowledge and record, the Romish clergy 
and their agents are apparently opposed to the employment of those 
means, which, in the present age, have found such extensive favor 
with the world, for the suppression of intemperance. Whether this 
arises from an unwillingness to relinquish the accustomed means of 
personal gratification, or from indifference, we cannot say. It is 
more probably, however, a part of the papal system ; for, wher 
drunkenness shall have been done away, and, with it, that just, rel 
ative proportion of all indolence, ignorance, crime, misery, and super 
stition, of which it is the putative parent; — then truly a mud 
smaller portion of mankind may be expected to follow the dart 
Ian them of the Romish religion. 

It is needless to say, that the course, pursued by her husband, made 
poor Kathleen an unhappy woman. — That religion is most likel} 
to find professors among the frivolous and the wicked, which, by a 
species of ecclesiastical legerdemain, can persuade the sinner, that 
he is going directly to Heaven, when he is going directly to Hell. 
By a refined and complicated system of Jesuitry and prelatical jug- 
gling, the Papal See has obtained its present extensive influence 
through the world. Poor Thaddv was still a catholic at heart. He 
was constantly contrasting tne compunctious prickings of his own 


AN IRISH HEART. 


217 


conscience, in contemplation of his unjustifiable career, and under 
the uncompromising system of religion, which he had learned from 
Kathleen ; — with the delightful alternate succession of sin and 
repentance, permitted by the Romish scheme. Most true, when an 
explanation is formally demanded, we are told, that the wafer is 
without efficacy, unless the sinner heartily repent. But where is 
the son of Ireland or of any other country, who has stolen a guinea 
and spent the last farthing of it in whiskey, who does not “ heartily 
reipentV'’ It would be difficult, in many cases, however, to decide, 
whether he repented that he had spent the guinea, or that he had 
stole no more. The priest is too desirous of preserving that power, 
which enables him to deal by wholesale, in this system of accepta- 
ole delusion, to render the wafer difficult of digestion, by too close 
a scrutiny into the character of that repentance, which the recipient 
avows. — Be these high matters as they may, Thaddy was less 
pleased with a religion, which left him so exceedingly uneasy, after 
the commission of sin. To forsake the poor “ cra^Awr,” and sin no 
more, was not in all his thoughts. Just before confession, his cath- 
olic associates were frequently less cheerful. The idea of passing 
out of hfe, without being shrived by the priest, filled them occasion- 
ally with painful apprehension. But, upon the next day, they were 
themselves again, and ready for a fresh career of iniquity. Kath- 
leen was not only pained but chagrined by Thaddy’s evident apos- 
tasy, for she undoubtedly believed that she had converted him 
herself. — Alas ! when a young thief, of the Roman catholic per- 
suasion, who comes to steal ducks, is suddenly converted to the 
protestant faith, not for the love of God, but of a handsome Irish 
girl, who detects him in the act, his conversion may not safely be 
credited, without further evidence. 

Thaddy Mashee had become a good carpenter, and he had no 
want of employment ; but the misapplication of his earnings had 
brought into his little household a guest, unwelcome and unknown 
before, poverty — but not rags as yet, nor squalid wretchedness. — 
I have watched — nor was it any waste of time — I have stood, 
sheltered beneath my umbrella, during a storm of wind and rain, 
and watched, for half an hour, the labors of that little insert, whose 
thrift and industry are a proverb. I have seen her meeting the ele- 
ments at every point ; gathering redoubled strength from the very 
exigency ; at one moment, repairing the crevasse, which gave a pas- 
sage to the water, that stood in a puddle — a lake to her — around 
her rampart of compacted sand, threatening to break down the levee, 
and bring ruin upon her house and home ; at another moment, I have 
seen her, regardful of her children, descending rapidly into her sub 

VOL. I. 19 


218 


AN IRISH HEART. 


terraneous abode, and instantly returning ; now struggling with a 
pebble, which threatened to choke the avenue, and then bearing oif 
a straw, which the wind had cast in her way. — Such is not an 
unhappy illustration of a thrifty housewife, — the Christian mother 
of needy children ; — to whom the voice of nature has spoken 
aloud, — if their father neglect them, — thou art their mother ! — to 
whose evangelized heart the angel of mercy has whispered, in 
accents ineffably sweet, — thou art not forsaken! — Such was Kath- 
leen. Her eyes, her ears, her hands were in continual requisition ; 
and, in the midst of oppressive poverty, she still continued not only 
to keep the wreck of their humble establishment together, but to 
preserve an air of tidiness and thrift. — Betsy Finnigan was a good 
friend to Kathleen, — but she was poor herself, and her own hus- 
band was falling fast into the pit, which, for years, he had been dig- 
ging for others. “ His shebeen wull be his. grave, I ’m faaring,” 
said Betsy to Kathleen, in the confidence of her full heart. — “ My 
health an shtrength are good, bliss the Lard,” Kathleen would say 
to her friend ; but a braaf minnit it is I gits, i’ the midst o’ my 
cares an throubles, to raad the ward. But we can pray, Bitsy, 
onyhow. Whin I ’m at the washtub, or minding daar Thaddy’s 
clothes or the childher’s, I can pray an waap into the bargin. An 
Ise moor shtrength whin Ise done, for there ’s na doot it ’s the Lard 
haars me.” There was a striking resemblance between the condi- 
tions of these illfated women. They were the only children of 
their respective parents, whom they had committed to the grave ; 
their years were nearly equal ; their tempers were gentle and affec- 
tionate ; their sorrows were the same ; without father or mother, 
brother or sister ; they had the same religious faith, and the same 
unfailing confidence in the promises of God. They were therefore, 
in the language of Paul, sorrowful yet always rejoicing.” These 
poor women had given a promise to each other, that, in the event 
of the death of either, the children of the deceased, so far as circum- 
stances would permit, should become the children of the survivor : a 
promise, whose fulfilment was prevented by subsequent events. 

If any human being could be supposed to possess two distinct 
entities, that being was Thaddy Mashee. He was an entirely dif- 
ferent creature, as his good or evil genius prevailed. Ungoverna- 
ble, brutal, and even dangerous, when under the influence of 
intoxicating liquor ; — at other times, during the intervals, between 
his paroxysms of drunkenness, for such in reality they were, he 
was full of sadness and sorrow for his bad conduct ; pouring forth, 
in the most vehement language, professions of regret and promises 
of amendment. These bright sunbeams were always hailed with 


AN IRISH HEART. 


219 


joy by Kathleen, although bitter and frequent experience had taught 
her, i^hat they were transient, and that cloud and tempest must inev- 
itably follow. A deep sigh, or a tear, or some kind attention to the 
children from their father, after a fit of intoxication, would atone for 
'a toiTent of oaths, and other cruel usage. — It was, in one of these 
intervals of repentance and domestic repose, that he was sitting with 
little David upon his knee : — “ Y’ ave rid to me o’ Joseph’s coat, 
Kathleen,” said he, “ an it ’s the gorsoon’s got one'o’ as mony col- 
ors, onyhow.” — “ An ye may wall say that,” said Kathleen ; “ but 
the leetle felly wanted a coat bad enough, an I did the bist I cud, 
daar Thaddy. It ’s made o’ githerings an scrapings to be sure afore 
the tailors’ shops. Whin I was picking up bits, naar McArdle’s 
shop, where Faden kipt, the same as wint to Amiriky, wid John 
McCloskey, McArdle ax’d me for what I pick’d up the paces; an 
whin I toult him, he throw’d me the great bit o’ blue, ye ’ll mind it 
betune the rid an graan, an he gi’ me a hank o’ thrid to mak it wid. 
David says the leetle fellies mak fun o’ his coat, but it kaaps him 
warm ; an Bitsy Finnigan says McArdle cud na made a bather fit. 
Tarn round David, an lit your father jist look at it; — there 
Thaddy, doesn’t ye rickon, Ise done purty wall consithering ? ” — 
Thaddy made no reply : — the tears filled his eyes. — “ Daar mon,” 
said Kathleen, “ an what ’s the matherl He sha’n’t waarthe coat, 
an it does n’t plase ye Thaddy.” — “ ’T was n’t o’ the coat I was 
thinking,” replied Thaddy, rubbing his eyes ; “ it ’s bekase, whiles 
I ’m pulling the house to paces, yese pitting it togither agin jist as 
fast. Och ! Katty, it ’s bad luck that brought me, spalpeen that J 
was, to your windy that night, whin I was ower head an aars in 
love wid your daar self. An what ’s am I now, moor nor a did weight 
an a curse t’ ye, Kathleen?” — “Whoosh! Thaddy,” said Kath- 
leen, “ don’t be after talking that a way, — ye ’s a good, kind hus- 
band to me, whin ye ’s your own self, ye are ; it ’s nothing but the 
crathur.” — “Kathleen,” said her husband, after a short pause, 
“I’m thinking, an I had gane wid John McCloskey to Amiriky, I 
shud na be haar as I am. — There ’s a vessel, they till me, wull be 
going after a waak’s time.” — Kathleen had occasionally repented 
her counsel, which caused Thaddy to try his fortune in Limer- 
ick. She had everything to fear from his continuance there with 
his present associates, and, at least, something to hope from a sepa- 
ration. — “ Was 't a waak ye spake o’ Thaddy?” said she. — “ It ’s 
after a waak or tin dees the ship wull sail, as I ’m toult,” he replied 
— “ Maybe,” said Kathleen, “ it ’s the Lard’s wull that we shud 
go to Amiriky, an Ise riddy thin.” — Thaddy appeared ovet joyed 
at her prompt acquiescence ; and went out in high spirits to make 
the necessary inquiries. 


220 


AN IRISH HEART. 


He soon returned, with information that the ship would actually 
sail, in ten days or a fortnight. — Their arrangements were easily 
made. Time slackened not his customary pace, and the fortnight 
was speedily gone. Kathleen, after parting from Innisfallen, found 
but little difficulty, in turning away from Limerick. There was 
indeed one tie, which she could not sever without a tear. When 
the ship was hauling off from the wharf, and orders had been given 
and repeated, for all but passengers to go ashore, Betsy Finnigan 
was the last to take leave. Their little children, who had been 
taught to look forward to years of friendship, embraced one another 
for the last time ; the prospective plans of their mothers were burst 
like bubbles ; and an ocean was about to be thrown between those, 
who might have associated till death, in the bonds of humble but 
happy friendship. And all this would have been far otherwise, but 
for “ the crathur.^' — The topsails were cast loose, and in a minute 
or two the ship began to move ; “ Gad bliss ye Bitsy daar, now an 
i’ the dee.” — “ The Lard be good t’ye Kathleen, I ’m thinking 
we ’ll maat in a bather warld.” — Upon the present occasion, they 
were embarked in a temperance ship. Captain Barclay permitted 
no spirit to be used by the crew, and it was a special condition, that 
not a drop should be brought on board by the passengers. In this 
vessel, one hundred and thirty-nine emigrants were brought, after a 
short and prosperous passage to the mouth of the St. Lawrence, 
and in the common course of time, to the city of Montreal. It was 
the third day of October, when Thaddy and Kathleen landed in the 
new country. Their scanty resources had been nearly exhausted in 
paying for their passage. A few shillings only remained of their lit- 
tle store. In the most literal sense, the world was now before them 
and Providence their guide : — but there can be no superior guide 
for man, if he will condescend to follow. They were young, in 
health, and accustomed to toil. 

However humble the resources of emigrants when they arrive, 
there are few, whose pecuniary means are too insignificant to tempt 
the cupidity of a certain class of mankind. The poor emigrant, not 
less than the poor sailor, has his cormorant on the watch, impa- 
tiently awaiting his arrival. The drunken landlord is the pursuer 
and the oiemy of both. Poor Thaddy had scarcely stepped upon, 
the shore before he fell among thieves. He went forth, like the 
messenger from the ark, to find a resting place for his wife and chil- 
dren ; and, after two or three hours, he returned to them, not with 
an olive branch in his mouth, but with such an intolerable stench of 
whiskey, as left no doubt of the success of his mission. A portion 
of their small resources had already been consumed for the procure- 


AN miSH HEART. 


22 


ment of a selfish and brutal gratification. Kathleen, with a heavy 
heart, leading little David by the hand, and carrying the babe in her 
arms, followed her husband to such miserable quarters as he had 
been enabled to engage, as he informed her for a few days. Mis- 
erable indeed they were, already crowded with emigrants, and sit- 
uated in the rear of a little grog-shop, from which the stench of 
whiskey and tobacco, and the clamor of unruly customers, continued 
to proceed till near midnight. Thaddy’s endeavors to obtain employ- 
ment were not attended with that success, which he had anticipated. 
During a period of two months, his family had suffered for the 
necessaries of life, which he had been either unable or unwilling to 
supply, most probably the latter ; for he had acquired, by his occa- 
sional labor, the means of drunkenness, in which he had frequently 
indulged since his arrival. Kathleen perceived with the deepest 
regret, that her influence was gradually decreasing ; and that his 
manners towards herself and the children, even during his moments 
of sobriety, were becoming less affectionate and gentle than before. 
The painful consciousness of being less beloved is apt enough to 
stimulate offended pride to some effort of revenge. The wounded 
heart struggles to love less ; it strengthens its resolution, by gather- 
ing, from their shallow graves, the recollections of past offences, 
long since forgiven, and sacrificed with tears of joy, upon the altars 
of renovated love. Ingenious, in reasoning itself into that very belief, 
which it abhors, the mind distorts all truth, and annihilates its own 
peace with its own sophistry. — But it is not always thus. There 
are minds, which present the powers of memory and imagination, 
in bold relief ; and yet the reasoning taculties are more prominent 
than these. So there are hearts, in which there is more than 
becomes a Christian of earthly pride, and yet love may so exceed- 
ingly prevail, as to bring all other affections under its absolute con- 
trol. Such was that Irish Heart, which beat in the bosom of 
Kathleen, and, in despite of all external agitations, with a pulse as 
steady and undeviating as the movement of a chronometer. Her 
love for the man of her heart was unconditional ; it was proved to be 
true love, by the acknowledged test, — for it was blind. We state 
not this in commendation, neither in dispraise of that ill-fated woman, 
whose story we recite ; but we describe her as she was. Thaddy 
was the husband of her choice and the father of her children. The 
unfading recollections of young love were ever before her, in all 
their primitive freshness ; she found it an easier task to forget his 
present neglect than his former devotion ; and she never attributed 
the ill-usage of an ungovernable man to “ daar Thaddy,’’^ but always 
tn the “ craihur." 


VOL. I. 


19 * 


222 


AN IRISH HEART. 


The month of December had commenced, and, fortunately for the 
poor, the season was unusually mild. For two months, Thaddy 
Mashee had sought in vain, for some regular employment. He had 
heard that a considerable demand for carpenters existed in Troy, in 
the State of New York, and proposed, to Kathleen, that he himself 
should proceed alone to that city, and endeavor to find employment 
there. The accounts that he had received, and which he presented 
before her, were so plausible, that she finally consented to the tem- 
porary separation. If he should not speedily succeed, he promised 
to return immediately, but if he found sufficient encouragement to 
settle permanently there, it was arranged, that he should return or 
send for his wife and children. As Thaddy was unable to write, 
he agreed to employ some person in Troy to write in his behalf. 

No sooner had Thaddy departed, than Kathleen devoted herself, 
single handed and alone, to the support of herself and her little chil- 
dren. toi. '^’^as an excellent washer and ironer, and her industrious 
habits and unujemished character soon brought her into the channel 
)f as much work, as her strength permitted her to undertake. She 
was enabled, by the most rigid economy, to pay the rent for her little 
apartment, and to clothe her little ones, and to find them potatoes 
and salt; and, from one of the families, in which she worked, she 
received a gratuitous and bountiful supply of skim milk ; so that she 
and her children would have been contented and happy but for the 
absence of the husband and father. She had even procured three 
yards of strong cotton, and, after reading her chapter and praying 
for the “poor childher in a land o’ shtrangers, and daar Thaddy^'' 
she used to sit down and work by a farthing candle, that she might 
surprise him upon his return, with a new shirt. — She had ascer- 
tained, to a day, the time, which he would probably consume in his 
journey to Troy, and the period when a letter might be expected. 
She was at the little window of the post office, day after day, for 
several weeks, inquiring for her letter. Her perseverance, in spite 
of so many disappointments, had attracted the notice of the post- 
master ; and her name and personal appearance had become quite 
familiar. Her amiable countenance became at last so sad, after so 
many applications in vain, that, to her customary inquiry, — “ Wull 
there be ony litter for Kathleen Mashee, your honor? — it was with 
a feeling of sincere regret, that, after a deliberate examination of 
the pile of letters, he returned them to the pigeon-hole, and looking 
over his spectacles, replied, “iVb letter for Kathleen Mashee!'’ 

December, January, and February w'ere well nigh gone, and no 
tidings of Thaddy. — Kathleen, driven almost to desperation, could 
endure it no longer. She determined to proceed herself to Troy, 


AN IRISH HEART. 


223 


in search of her husband. Having made her arrangements, she set 
forth upon the journey, notwithstanding the inclement season of the 
year; and, with her infant in her arms, and little David at her side, 
she proceeded to traverse, on foot, those hundreds of miles, which 
lie between Montreal and Troy. Subsisting chiefly upon charity, 
and supported by the God of the forlorn, she steadily pursued her 
way. Her simple story, briefly told, in the irresistible language of 
nature and truth, and in reply to the inquiries of those, whom she 
encountered, won a night’s lodging here and there, and now and 
then a plentiful bowl of bread and milk for little David and her- 
self. Occasionally she was less fortunate. Suspicion and distrust 
would sometimes lock up the heart even of some honest farmer. 
Permission to take shelter for the night, on the hay-loft perhaps, 
was, in some cases, reluctantly conceded. Upon such occasions, 
little David and herself would eat the dry morsel of bread, which 
she had providently reserved for such an exigency ; and, while 
she was nursing the baby, David would read some portion of God’s 
word from that same little Bible, which had been Kathleen’s own 
book, in the island of Innisfallen. “It’s too good for us this 
place,” she would say, as they were about to renew their journey. 
“ ’T was in jist sich a place ye remimber, David, the Saviour was 
cradled.” She would then stop at the farmer’s door, and, thanking 
him for their night’s lodging, proceed upon her journey. Thus, 
with almost incredible toil and suffering, she reached the place of 
her destination ; and, after many inquiries, to which she obtained no 
satisfactory answ’er, she was directed to the habitations of some Irish 
families, who formed a little neighborhood by themselves. Here 
she repeated her inquiries from house to house, without any success, 
until she arrived at a miserable hovel, in one part of which there 
was a grog-shop. Kathleen approached the door, and accosted 
one of ^he men, who were standing within : — “Is it ony one haar, 
that can jist till me whereaboots I may be finding Thaddy Mashee ? 
it’s mv husband that same.” — “ Thaddy Mashee it is?” said one 
of the group. — “ Yis, an it is,” replied Kathleen. “Was he 
lang haar?” inquired another. — “Not lang I’m thinking,” said 
Kathleen, “ he lift Montreal moor nor thraa months ago it was.” 

— “Was not he a carpenter fro’ Lim’rick?” inquired the person, 
whom she first addressed. — “ Lard be good t’ ye, that same it was 
indaad,” said Kathleen, “jist be tilling me where to find the daar 
mon.”--“ Mashee was it she sed?” inquired a rough looking fel- 
low, “ likes enough it ’s he that was sintanc’d for the siven yaars.” 

— “ Daar me !” cried Kathleen, and fell with the babe in her arms 
qpon the ground. “ How inconsitherate y’ are Mullowny,” said 


224 


. AN IRISH HEART. 


one of the group, “ ye haar’d the poor woman say the mon was hei 
husband.” — All considerations were forgotten in the present de- 
mand upon their kind feelings ; and their countrywoman and her 
babe were carried into the house. Little David cried, as if his heart 
would break, for he thought his poor mother was dead. In a few 
minutes, however, she was restored to her senses ; and the answers 
to her rapid interrogations furnished a distressing confirmation of her 
fears. — “Poor daar Thaddy!” she exclaimed, “an it’s transh- 
ported he is!” It was soon explained to her, that transportation, 
as a mode of punishment, was unknown in the new country ; and 
she seemed to be somewhat relieved by the conviction, that he was 
still upon the same continent with herself. When she had sufll- 
ciently composed her mind to hear a connected account of the affair, 
it was related to her briefly as follows. Thaddy had wandered about, 
seeking employment, and devoting his earnings for a day’s work, to 
the procurement of the means of intoxication for several successive 
days ; and then repeating the process. In a fit of drunkenness, he 
liad attacked a fellow-countryman with a deadly weapon. The 
Grand Jury and the Court were in session. Poor Thaddy was im- 
mediately indicted, tried, and convicted of an assault with intent to 
murder; and sentenced to the State Prison at Auburn, for seven 
years. — “ An why didn’t he sind me the news, bad enough an it 
was indaadP’ said Kathleen. — “ He did so, and ye may depind,” 
replied an old man, from whom she had obtained the most minute 
particulars; “an ’twas myself that pinn’d the litter for ’im, an 
’twas diricted jist as he toult me, to Maastrcss Kathleen Mashee, 
ower Pether McQuaid's shebeen. — But now I’m thinking we was 
so harrished, that I ’s claan forgot to pit the name o’ the town, but 
the litter’s safe enough onyhow.” 

One hundred and seventy or eighty miles were still between 
Kathleen and her miserable husband. But of what avail would her 
presence be, if she were in Auburn ! To those, who counselled her 
to give up the thought of such a long and unprofitable journey, she 
replied, “ I wull be naarer to daar Thaddy, an it ’s a swaat thought 
to me that.” 

The inmates of this miserable dwelling were kind to Kathleen, 
and gave her and her children a supper and lodging. She retired 
into one corner of the apartment, every other corner of which was 
already occupied ; and there, upon her sack of straw, she lay down 
with her children, not to slumber, but to weep and pray. There is 
surely such a consciousness of God’s presence and support, such a 
firm conviction, that he hears and answers prayer, as gives strength 
to labor still and endure yet a little longer, when the cheek is pale, 


AN IRISH HEART. 


226 


and the joints are feeble, and the heart is well nigh broken. — In 
the morning, though she had slept but little, she rose strengthened 
and refreshed. — “ An where is ’t y’ are going now?” said her host- 
ess, as she saw her preparing herself and her children for their 
departure. — “Thanks t’ ye for your kindness,” said Kathleen; 
“ Ise going to saak a pardon for my poor daar mon. They till me 
it ’s namioor nor a few miles to the governor’s house ; an Ise toult 
by the paple haar, that it ’s himself has the power to pardon Thaddy, 
an he wull ; an in the name o’ marcy, why wull he not, an he ’s 
flesh an blood?” 

She took leave of the poor people, who had sheltered her for the 
night, and who wished ‘‘good luck ye,''* as she departed, but with 
. an expression, which seemed to intimate their entire want of confi- 
dence in the success of her enterprise. She turned off with a lighter 
foot than might have been expected, after the fatigue she had under- 
gone ; but her heart had been refreshed by a measure of hope, which 
amounted almost to a confidence of success. The poor creature, in 
the simplicity of her heart, supposed, that the .Governor of New 
York would be quite as blind to Thaddy ’s failings, as she was her- 
self. — She reached Albany before ten in the morning, and soon 
found her way to the governor’s mansion. Fortunately he was at 
home. She rang the bell, and sat down upon the door steps, with 
little David, to get a moment’s rest.' The door was presently opened 
by a domestic, who inquired her business. “ It ’s a poor buddy wud 
spake wid the governor,” she replied. In a short time, she was 
conducted into his study. Kathleen made her courtesy, and little 
David, who had been duly instructed, took off his cap, and holding 
it with both hands, made his best bow. But this extraordinary eff<)rt 
caused him to fall upon the carpet. The governor smiled, and said 
an encouraging word to the little fellow. “ He ’s waary sir,” said 
Kathleen, “ he can do it bitter nor that ; but he’s walked a lang 
way.” — “How far?” inquired the governor. “It’s only fro’ 
Troy the dee sir, but we ’s come fro’ Montreal ; an the childher ’s 
walk’d wid me ivry dee, and his faat are blister’d they are.” — 
“ Sit down, then, both of you,” said the governor, “ and inform me 
what has caused you to walk from Montreal to Albany, at this 
inclement season, and what is your business with me?” — “ It ’s na 
the like o’ me,” said Kathleen, “that wull be able to spake to 
quality as it ’s maat : but may the Lard pit right wards into the 
mouth an right thoughts into the broken heart o’ a poor woman, and 
ye ’ll haar the truth onyhow. It ’s o’ Thaddy Mashee, that I wud 

spake t’ ye sir, an ” “ Are you his wife?” inquired the gov 

ernor. “Indaad am I, and it ’s my comfort that lam,” answered 


226 


AN IRISH HEART. 


Kathleen “an now he ’s in throuble he ’s daarer to me nor iver.” 

— “ Well,” rejoined the governor, “ I am well acquainted with hia 
case, and you have come here to see if you can get him pardoned, 1 
suppose.” — “ Jist that, your honor, it’s all the way fro’ Montreal 
Ise come for that same ; it ’s na moor nor five months since we come 
haar. We ’re shtrangers in a shtrange land : our forbares in the 
oult country are all gane, and it ’s nather kith nor kin we ha’ haar. 
It ’s a good kind mon, my husband that ’s in prison, and he ’d na 
hart a fly.” — “ But, my good woman,” said the governor, “ it was 
proved, that he would have committed murder, if he had not been 
prevented.” — “ Och sir,” replied Kathleen, “I’d na belaave the 
like o’ that, an I saad it wid my own eyes. It ’s na Thaddy Mashee 
himself wud do sich a thing as that ; ’t was notting but the crathur, 
your honor may depind.” — “But the laws of England,” replied 
the governor, “ and of this country consider a man more guilty, who 
commits a crime under the influence of liquor.” — “ An shud it be 
soT’ rejoined the poor woman, with increasing animation, “ shud it 
be so ? An it ’s right to pray that we may na be lid into timptation, 
IS it right to mak laws, which fills the land wid shebeens, where he 
that sills the crathur, may timpt ony poor buddy to his ruin? Whin 
we come to this contree, fro’ the dee we lift Lim’rick till we raach’d 
Montreal, na woman iver had a moor oblaaging mon, than Thaddy. 
He was iver talking good-nathured wid myself, or playing wid the 
childher, or spaking o’ how happy we wud be in the new contree. 
He thritend na buddy, he was ceevil and dacent to all aboord. An 
it ’s jist bekase there was na a dhrap o’ the crathur to be had. 
Your honor wull forgi’ a poor buddy, but I wud ax, an a governor 
wid all the contreevers o’ the law has na as great a power to prevint 
this sart o’ throuble, as a captin o’ a marchant ship ? Whoosh ! 
sir,” continued Kathleen, forgetting in her zeal for her husband and 
for justice, the presence she was in, “ pit na the cheens round the 
nick o’ poor Thaddy, that daar innocent mon that he is, but upon 
them what maks and what sills the maddening crathur, or upon 
them, what permits sich prosadings ; na offince t’ yer honor, ony- 
how. — Whin the dee is done, the poor buddy, waary and darty, 
and drouthy, rins to the shebeen as aisily, as the baby whin it ’s 
hungry rins after the brist. An there was na shebeen, he wud rin 
hum to the wife an childher, an be moor happy there. Woe be to 
them, the book tills us yer honor, by whom th’ offince hath come. 

— But, an ye ’ll na regard the prayers and the taars o’ a poor 

woman, Ise one frind, to whom I can go.” — “ You mean the Catho- 
lic priest or bishop, I suppose,” said the governor. “ Na in- 

daad, yer honor,” said Kathleen ; “ it ’s this blissed book,” taking 


AN IRISH HEART. 


227 


her little Bible from her bosom, “ that taught me moor nor tin yaara 
ago, where to saak the bist relaaf for a broken heart, and the daarest 
frind a poor buddy can ha’ in a coult warld.” 

The governor was much interested by the zeal .and honesty of 
this devoted creature ; and, having heard, soon after the trial, of 
Mashee, some circumstances of a palliatory character, he was 
strongly inclined to mercy. The marks of weariness were evident 
on the features of Kathleen and her little boy. The high color upon 
her intelligent and honest face, was not the glow of health, but the 
flush of a protracted and painful excitement. The governor re- 
quested Jiis daughter, who came accidentally into the room, to bring 
some refreshments. She soon returned, with her mother, and a 
little brother, whose curiosity she had excited, by her account of 
the pretty Irish woman and her children. — “ It ’s your leddy, sir 
said Kathleen, dropping a courtesy. The governor nodded his 
head, and gave some little account of the poor woman’s errand, 
while she gave little David some of the refreshment, and partook, 
though sparingly, herself. — “ You had better take something 
more,” said the governor’s lady, “you have walked several miles 
since your breakfast.” — “ It ’s na breakfast Ise bin ating the dee, 
maam,” said Kathleen: “it’s hard ating wid a hivy heart. My 
own taars it is, that ’s bin maat and drink to me mony a dee. An 
ye was i’ the same case yourself, daar leddy, wid your swaat child- 
her haar depindant upon yourself alone for a bit bread, and your 
good mon pit up in prison, for siven waary yaars, it ’s na o’ ating 
ye ’d be thinking, moor nor to kaap sowl and buddy togither, till ye 
saad him ha’ his leeberty agin. — Och sir,” continued Kathleen, 
turning to the governor, and pressing an argument, which her 
sagacity assured her had not been presented entirely in vain ; — “is 
it jist in the sight o’ God, to spread a shnare at iv’ry corner, and 
whin as ’twas na moor nor raasonable to be ixpicted, a poor immi- 
grant or ony other poor- buddy falls in ’t, to pit him in prison for siven 
yaars? An ye wad jist put the crathur, that did the ill wark, in 
prison for siven yaars, wid them that maks it, and them that sills it, 
ye ’d do a sarvice, and saa a daal o’ difference onyhow. Ise haar’d 
afore I lift Ireland, that Amiriky was a fraa country. It ’s a fraa 
country, for aven the dacons o’ the charches, Ise toult, to make the 
accursed crathur o’ the Sabbadee ; it ’s a fraa country for sich as 
the like o’ they, who profiss to love the Lard, that wint aboot doing 
good, to sill the pistilent poison that it is, an to win away the bit 
bread o’ the little childher, an drive the poor broken-hearted mother 
to dispiration, an laad the misguided husband an father to offind agin 
the law. It ’s a fraa country for all this, indaad it is. But 'wliin 


22S 


AN IRISH HEART. 


the wretched mon, craz’d wid the crathur, commits an offince, it’* 
na fraa country for the like o’ him, onyhow.” — The energy an^ 
honesty of this poor supplicant’s manner can scarcely be conceived. 
Tne governor’s lady and daughter were deeply impressed by the 
native eloquence of this untutored Irish woman. Their tears were 
already telling the secret of their sympathy. — “ Maybe,” continued 
Kathleen, “maybe ye ’s thinking Ise too boult an plain-spaking. 
Indaad it ’s not myself that maans ony offince, for it ’s upon yer 
honored selves alone, next to the sure frind, Ise depinding for marcy, 
it is. Poor daar Thaddy !” she exclaimed, scarcely able to speak 
articulately for her tears and sobs. “Och! an we had only bin 
continted to remain in Innisfallen, where we was barn, an where we 
first began to love ache other, an where we lived in pace ! — Daar 
sir, wull ye na look upon your own swaat leddy, an upon your own 
childher, an gi’ a passing thought to me an to mine 1 It ’s for the 
daar husband, the only frind I ha’ i’ the warld, Ise plaading, an for 
the father o’ thase childher haar. Wull ye na lit thase poor things 
ha’ their father agin, an wull ye kaap the bars o’ iron betune myself 
an my daar mon, for siven lang yaars ? — Gad bliss ye sir ; — he ’s 
touching your kind haart ; I saa it by the taar that ’s jist in your 
eye.” — “ Good woman,” said the governor, “ your husband’s case 
shall be considered without delay, possibly this morning ; in the 
mean time, as you are entirely without friends in this place, my wife 
will provide for you to-day.” — “Och, sir, it’s nothing Ise can 
retam, but a poor buddy’s prayers, an ye ’ll ha’ enough o’ them, 
onyhow.” — Kathleen and her children were ushered into the gov- 
ernor’s kitchen. “ Dear papa,” said his daughter, as he was leav- 
ing the room shortly after, “ do let the poor little children have their 
father again 

At noon, the governor returned, and Kathleen was summoned 
into his presence. “ In consideration of your husband’s youth,” 
said the governor, “ and of some circumstances, which, as I am told, 
were favorable to him at the trial, and of your own efforts in his 
behalf, I now put into your hands a full pardon for Thaddy Mashee.” 
— The effect upon this poor woman was not such as might ha\ e 
been expected. Instead of giving way to such an ebullition of un- 
governable feeling, as is characteristic of the Irish, under similar 
circumstances, she received the pardon from the governor, and, 
turning her eyes towards Heaven, she put the paper to her lips, and 
bathed it with tears : she then dropped upon her knees, and, clasp- 
ing her hands together, exclaimed, in tones of the deepest feeling, 
“ Lard of the poor and the rich, the waak and the powerful, for the 
blissing, which Ise now resaved, may I spind the rist o’ my dees to 
thv honor and glory.” 


AN IRISH HEART. 


229 


Her gratitude to the governor and his family was expressed in the 
most simple and affecting terms. — She could not be prevailed on to 
remain and rest herself for the night. — “ I ’ll be tin miles on my 
way to the prison,” said she, “ afore I slaap.” She pursued her 
journey to Auburn, subsisting on charity, as before, and arrived 
there at last, herself and her little boy nearly exhausted with fatigue. 
She inquired her way to the State’s Prison, and in the words of the 
respected individual, from whom we received the original statement, 
upon which we have built this tale of an Irish Heart, “ like the 
good angel of Peter ^ she opened the prison door, and set the captive 
freed' She delivered the pardon, which she had kept safely in her 
Jlible, to the warden of the prison. After carefully examining the 
document, he bade her follow him. She passed along through the 
narrow avenue and between the rows of cells. At length he stopped, 
and applied the key. — Kathleen stood near him with a beating 
heart. — The bolts flew back ; — the door swung open : — the crimi- 
nal could not perfectly recognize the individual, who eagerly ap- 
proached him ; — but, in an instant, the poor creature’s arms were 
clasped about his neck, and “ Daar, daar Thaddy,” conveyed in tones 
of the tenderest affection, assured him of the truth. — “ It ’s your 
own wife and childher, Thaddy,” said she, — “come out fro’ this 
coult ugly place, daar mon.” Thaddy looked anxiously at the 
warden for an explanation, who announced to the bewildered man, 
til at he was fully pardoned. 

Nothing could exceed the professions of gratitude and love, which 
he bestowed upon his deliverer. Her touching story created a 
strong feeling of sympathy for them both. A purse was made 
uj), by some benevolent individuals in Auburn, on their account. 
Thaddy once more commenced business as a carpenter, and there 
was but one obstruction in the way of their prosperity, — the cra- 
thur, the most uncompromising and unrelenting of all task-masters 
over those, who have once become his voluntary slaves. 

It would be more agreeable to lay aside the pen, and leave the 
reader under the delightful impression, that Thaddy and Kathleen 
were thenceforward the happiest couple upon earth. — It was not 
more than six weeks from the period of his liberation, when a per- 
son, walking in the evening, near the little dwelling, which was 
tenanted by Thaddy Mashee, was attracted by groans, proceeding 
apparently from some person’in distress. He approached the spot, 
and not far from the door, discovered a female, who was unable to 
rise. Having procured a light, he ascertained that this unfortunate 
woman was Kathleen Mashee. She was conveyed to her dwelling, 
which was in terrible confusion. The little furniture she possessed 
20 


VOL. I. 


230 


AN IRISH HEART. 


had been broken to p.eces ; the cradle was knocked over and the 
baby was turned upon the floor ; and the elder child lay concealed 
beneath the bed. From him, when he had sufficiently recovered 
from his terror, they learned, that his father had come home crazy, 
and broken the furniture, and, after beating his mother over the 
head repeatedly with a chair, had dragged her, by her hair, to the 
spot where she had been found. Whither his father had fled the 
boy knew not. Poor Kathleen, by the kind attention of the neigh- 
bors, was m the course of a few weeks restored to health. She still 
persisted in finding excuses for Thaddy’s conduct. — “ There niver 
was a kinder nor himself upon coult wather,” she would often say, 
“it’s nathing but the crathur.” — Surely there is too much of 
ratiojiality, in such an allegation, to authorize its unqualified rejec- 
tion. The experience of the world has taught us, that the tempta- 
tions to drunkenness, which are legalized at every corner, are too 
powerful for the poor ; and that a vast proportion of mankind, who 
would be praiseworthy in the various relations of life upon “ coult 
wather,'''’ are converted into maniacs and devils, by the influence of 
the “ crathur." 

After this horrible outrage, Thaddy appears to have fled, for 
nothing has been heard of him to the present hour. Of Kathleen 
we can only speak in the words of the individual, from whom we 
obtained the groundwork of this narrative. “ The last 1 hnew of this 
devoted and much injured woman, she was asking charity to enable her 
once more to go in search of that monster of a husband, who had thus 
requited her sacrifices and. her love." 

When we contemplate those poor emigrants, who aie flocking 
among us from the Emerald Isle, oppressed by poverty, and through 
the detestable agency of our grog-shops, invited to the commission 
of every variety of crime ; we are prone to speak and think of them 
as an offensive and dangerous accession to the popular mass. Before 
we condemn by wholesale, let the enlightened philanthropists of our 
country, endeavor to meliorate their condition, by removing the 
means of drunkenness, by supplying the means of education, and 
by urging upon their minds the claims of a religion, pure and unde- 
filed. By such allurements and excitatives as these, we shall be 
enabled to elevate the character of a large and increasing department 
of our population, and learn to estimate the real value of \n Ikish 
Heart 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR 


Anacharsis, the Scythian philosopher, being' entertained by Periander, king of (Corinth, deir ended 
Jie priM for being the first drunk, such, as he affirmed, being the end and aim of all who drink 
ntoxicating liquors.* Such liquors, unless they are rendered palatable, by the addition of sacc.ba- 
^ine or other agr ieable matters, are almost universally ofiensive to the beginner. The pleasurable 
sensation, which, for a time, accompanies that disturbance of the functions of the brain and nerves, 
produced by such liquors, is a part of the process of inebriation ; it is the dawn of that drunkenness, 
whose mid-day consists of woe, and sorrow, contention and babbling, wounds without cause, and red- 
ness of eyes ; and whose night terminates in apoplectic, stertorous sleep, and frightful dreams. 
Disproportioned as are the pleasures to all the pains of drunkenness, the attainment of these pleas- 
ures is the end and aim of drinking, and the sentiment of Anacharsis is, therefore, undoubtedly cor- 
rect. 

These pleasures may be purchased at various prices ; and will he, who greatly values them, but 
who can no longer afford to psyr the highest price, forego them entirely, or purchase the joys of 
drunkenness at a lower rate? The sensualist, grown poor, descends to the haunts of vulgar licen- 
tiousness. The gamester turns not away forever from his reckless course, because his empty pock- 
ets and threadbare apparel admonish him to forsake more fashionable places of resort : he still 
hankers after his darling occupation, and throws the dice, for a paltry stake, among sharpers, as 
ragged and wretched as himselt. Just so the miserable inebriate, who has acquired his unconquer- 
able relish, upon costly wine, at the table, peradventure, of his affluent parents, becomes occasion- 
ally the associate of those, who sleep in hovels, and whose nectar is rum. While, therefore, we 
admit that the temperance reform, as a remedy, may be well enough for the vulgar, we commend it, 
as a preventive, to the enlightened and refined. ' 


“ How I used to hate the taste of it,” said master Frederick, a 
young lad, about ten years of age, the son of a wealthy planter, as 
he turned off his heel-tap of Madeira. — “ When you first made mo 
drink it, mamma, I never thought I should ever get to love it so 
well as I do now.” — “ Well, my son,” said Mrs. Broughton, “ I 
trust it will be an useful lesson to you, as long as you live ; and that 
hereafter you will take your mother’s advice, without any hesitation. 
Who loves you better, my dear, than your fond parents ; or who 
can be supposed to know what is for your good, more certainly 
than they? To be sure, you made a sad piece of work of it, at 
first ; and it was really distressing, to witness the wry faces, which 
you used to make up, whenever you tasted a little wine. But you 
do a great deal better than you did, my dear. Still, I think there is 
room for a little improvement, Frederick. You are not quite so 
graceful in your manner of taking wine, as I wish you to be. There 
is master McKilderkin, the general’s son ; how much like a man he 
takes his glass, when,” — “ Oh yes, to be sure,” said Frederick, 

.nterrupting his mother, “ they are all the time having company, at 
General McKilderkin’s, and William has had so much more expe- 


* Archaeol. Graec. Vol. II., p. 406. 


232 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


rience than I have. Don’t you remember, when we all dined there 
last week, mamma, that the general said William had a fine taste 
in wines ; and that he actually knew the Cockroach wine from the 
Serapis, when old Admiral Hardhead could not tell them apart, 
though he has drunken more wine, the general says, than any living 
man, of his age?” — “ Bui William McKilderkin lifts his glass so 
gracefully from the table,” rejoined Mrs. Broughton; “ here, look 
at me; put some wine in your glass.” Frederick filled his glass, 
and imitated the movement of his mother. “ Tolerably well,” said 
site, “ but you want practice, my son.” Master Frederick indicated 
liis displeasure, by setting down his empty glass, with some vio- 
lence, upon the table. 

At that moment, Mr. Broughton, who had been absent, for a short 
time, resumed his seat. “What’s the matter, Fred?” said he, 
observing that his son was not in a pleasant humor. — “ Why, moth- 
er ’s been scolding me,” replied this interesting youth, “ because I 
don’t drink wine like Bill McKilderkin.” — “Oh no, Frederick^ 
my love,” replied Mrs. Broughton, “I only,” — “Well, never 
inind, don’t let’s have any words about it,” said Mr. Broughton ; 
“fill your glass, Fred.” — “He has drunk three glasses already, 
my dear,” said Mrs. Broughton. — “ Three glasses, eh ! has he?” 
said her husband ; “ well, well, never mind, this pure old Monteiro 
never harmed a fly. Now, Fred, never refuse in company, my son, 
— nothing so awkward. I ’ll tell you a story about that. There 
was old Jotham Hawbuck, a senator from Onion county, in the 
State of Massachusetts : he was dining with the governor, in com 
pany with eighteen or twenty gentlemen : — ‘ Shall I have the 
honor of a glass of wine with you, Mr. Hawbuck?’ said the gov- 
ernor. Poor Hawbuck had never been in such harness before. He 
colored, and stuttered, and finally stammered out, ‘ I ’d much rather 
not, your excellency!’ — Last Friday, I was dining with Colonel 
.Tohnson : an old-fashioned body, by the name of Gookin, was at 
table ; some business acquaintance, who had come up the river, to 
look at his cotton, and whom the colonel felt himself obliged to 
invite. We had a haunch of venison for dinner. Everybody had 
finished the first course but old Gookin. He held on to his venison, 
like a Burgundy-pitch plaster. ‘Mr. Gookin,’ said Colonel John- 
son, in his very courteous and gentlemanly way, ‘ indulge me in the 
pleasure of a glass of wine with you.’ — ‘ Not yet,' said old Gookin, 
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Bob Johnson, the 
colonel’s son, burst into a roar of laughter, and his mother sent him 
from table. — Never refuse, Fred ; and be sure to drink with all the 
ladies.” 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


233 


Well, wife,” said Mr. Broughton, “ where do we go to-night?” 
— “We are engaged, to-night, my dear, at Mrs. Noodle’s,” 
replied Mrs. Broughton. — “ Mercy upon us ! so we are,” cried her 
husband ; “ I had forgot all about it. Well, the distiller’s lady will 
show off in great style, I ’ve no doubt. Old Noodle is amazingly 
rich, yet I well remember the time when his whole estate was 
invested in a horse and dray. When E|r. Smith preached his ex- 
cellent sermon upon temperance, last Sunday, I looked over at 
Noodle’s pew ; and when the doctor spoke, in pretty strong terms, 
of those, who become the ministers of ruin, by importing and distill- 
ing, though it was a chilly morning, I saw old Noodle wipe the per- 
spiration repeatedly from his forehead. I wonder how he can hold 
on to such a business ; I confess I have no patience with such a man , 
and I have no pleasure in going to his house to-night. By the way, 
my dear. Dr. Smith gave me several temperance tales, and asked 
me to think seriously of joining the temperance society : what do 
you think of it ?” — “ Why, Mr. Broughton !” said his lady, “ you 
certainly cannot be in earnest. I’m sure I would not join such a 
society for the world.” — “Why, my dear,” rejoined her husband, 
“ it would cost us nothing, if we did. I don’t believe we oansume 
a quart of gin or brandy, in a twelvemonth ; and, as to rum and 
whiskey, I don’t know that they are used in our family at all.” 
“ Dear Mr. Broughton,” rejoined his partner, “ why, Venus and 
Diana, the washerwomen, drink half a pint of gin apiece, every 
Monday ; old Sukey, the cook, could not live without brandy ; 
neither mince pies nor cake can be made without it ; besides, Mr. 
Broughton, your punch in the summer, only think of it, — your 
punch, my love!” — “True, true, my dear,” said her husband, 
“I spoke without much reflection. You understand these domes- 
tic matters better than I do, of course. But, when I heard Dr. 
Smith so feelingly describe the misery produced by distilled spirits, 
and the good that would result from these societies, I did give him 
a little encouragement, to be sure.” — “Why, Mr. Broughton, I 
wonder at you,” replied his wife ; “ Ashur, the coachman, is con- 
stantly coming to me for money, to buy New England rum, to mb 
old Sorrel’s legs. Only yesterday, he purchased a two-gallon 
flagon at the grocer’s.” — “Did he, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. 
Broughton ; “that accounts for his conduct. I have serious doubts, 
if it all goes to rub old Sorrel’s legs. Ashur was evidently drur.k 
all day.” — “ But, my dear husband,” continued Mrs. Broughton, 
“ how many acquaintances and friends we have, who drop in, every 
day or two, and take a little cordial. How awkward it would seem 
to be obliged to say, that we could not offer them a drop of it, 


G34 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR, 


because we belonged to the temperance society f” — “ Well, well, 
my dear,” replied her husband, “I have not positively promised 
Dr. Smith to join the society, though he tells me the pledge, 
at present, extends only to distilled liquors.” — “ And I hope, Mr. 
Broughton, you never will,” rejoined his wife : “ I agree, mtirely, 
with my excellent friend, Mrs. Scarlet, that the temperance society 
is well enough for the vulgar; but that it is really ridiculous for 
genteel people, who drink little else than good wine or porter, that 
never hurt anybody, to put their names to a paper, which contains 
the names already of so many people, that nobody knows anything 
about. Besides, Mr. Broughton, both you and myself have natu- 
rally considerable color, and to join such a society, would almost 
amount to an admission that we were in the habit of drinking ardent 
spirit ourselves. Still, I don’t deny, that it may be well enough 
for the vulgar.^'* 

Mr. Broughton sat twirling his thumbs, in silence, like an irreso- 
lute being, as he was. The volubility of his wife had, upon this, 
as upon many other occasions, reduced him to the conviction, that 
his strength lay in sitting still. He preserved a silence worthy of 
a good subaltern ; and his lady, perceiving that the topic was not 
likely to move him again for the present, retired, for the purpose of 
making her preparations to visit Mrs. Noodle, in the evening. Mr. 
Broughton took his cigar, and sauntered, for half an hour, in the 
garden. 

The time at length arrived ; the coach was at the door ; and Mr. 
and Mrs. Broughton, with many charges to Frederick, to be a good 
boy, and go to bed in good season, drove away to Mrs. Noodle’s. 

“ They ’re gone Tom,” said this promising heir, as he turned the 
key, behind their backs, calling a little negro, about fourteen years of 
age. — “Be they gone, massa Frederick 1” inquired this valuable 
domestic, creeping, at the same time, warily forward, with his eyes 
all about him. — Becoming satisfied, that the coast was clear, Tom 
proceeded with master Frederick, to ransack the lockers for sweet- 
meats ; and, notwithstanding the quantity of wine the latter hatl 
swallow<3d at the dinner table, the relish for that liquor, already 
acquired, impelled this youthful victim of intemperance, — for such 
in reality he was, even at this early age, — to additional indulgence. 
He was in the very act of playing my little Lord Bountiful, and 
helping his sable associate to a second glass, when the sharp, shrill 
voice of Mrs. Gale, the house-keeper, converted their entertainment 
into anything but a soireh musicale. “ Hoity, toity!” cried the 
worthy Mrs. Gale, “ your mother shall know of this, master Fred- 
v;rick, before to-morrow morning.” — “Tell of me, if you dare^ 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


235 


mother Gale,” answered this promising youth, “ and see if I don’t 
tell father how you steal, and give away the flour and sugar.” — 
“ No such thing,” cried Mrs. Gale; “hold your tongue, you little 
rogue : come, be a good boy, and I won’t say a word about it, and 
I ’ll make you a turn-over, to-morrow, dear. But as for you, you 
little black dog, I ’ll expose you, as sure as you live,” continued 
she, turning to the negro boy. — “Guess better not, missy Gale, 
ha, ha, ha,” replied Tom, with a provokingly significant leer; 
“ guess better not, better let de matter drop, missy Gale ; — don ye 
' know, toder day, ha, ha, ha, missy Gale!” — “Well, well, get 
along about your business, you impudent varlet,” said Mrs. Gale, 
“ I shan’t bring you into trouble, this time, at any rate.” — “ Ha, 
ha, better not, missy Gale !” still echoed through the entry. 
“Get along, get along,” cried the house-keeper. — The inter- 
changeable relations of the parties appeared too plainly to indicate 
the propriety of peace. Indeed, such exhibitions as these were of 
no uncommon occurrence in the well regulated family of Mr. 
Broughton. 

Mr. Broughton and his lady arrived in front of the distiller’s splen- 
did mansion, rather earlier than comported with the point of fashion, 
as it was only half past nine, just as the carriage drew up before 
the door. A blaze of light poured forth from the windows, and 
illuminated the public way. “A very beautiful mansion, my dear,” 
said Mrs. Broughton, as she alighted. “ Very, very, my dear,” 
replied her husband, “ but it wants one thing.” — “ And pray what 
is that?” inquired his lady. — “A pithy couplet over the front door, 
like that in front of one of the gin palaces in London : 

‘Who’d have thought it? 

Gin bought it ! ’ 

“Put rum for gin, and the w'hole truth will be fairly told.” — 
“ Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Broughton, in a whisper, “ for pity’s 
sake, say nothing about the temperance society to-night ; the very 
naming of it is enough to sink one’s reputation for gentility. It ’s 
well enough for the vulgar; but pray say nothing of it among fash- 
ionable people.” — The close of this exhortation brought them to 
the door of a crowded saloon, where some hundreds of ladies and 
gentlemen were standing together, as compactly as a cane-brake 
Nothing can be more perplexing to the ear of a novice, than the 
sound of that unintelligible “jangle,” which commonly issues from 
the door of entrance, where a fashionable mob, of both sexes and ot 
every age, are in the full enjoyment of ** the feast of reason, and the 
flow of soul.” The rush of mighty waters is quite another affair. 


236 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


The club meeting, so admirably described by Oliver Goldsmith 
where all voices were blended, and where he, who had the loudest 
voice, had also the longest story to tell, bears some little analogy to 
the confusion of such an assembly as this. I confess, that the 
recollections of many idle hours, wasted in such scenes as these, 
have been forcibly revived, in after time, when, upon a clear, star- 
light night, musing alone, upon the deck of a Mississippi steamer, 
I have listened to the wittenag emote, or nocturnal parliament of buz- 
zards, herons, pelicans, and cranes ; who fill the wilderness with 
their inharmonious cackle, extremely edifying to themselves, beyond 
a doubt, but quite unintelligible to all beside. 

Mr. Broughton had no small difficulty, in squeezing himself and 
Mrs. Broughton, through the crowd, for the purpose of paying their 
respects to the lady of the house. “ Which way is Mrs. Noodle?” 
said he, addressing Major McTab, one of the greatest wags in the 
city. — “ Somewhere, in this elegant receiver,’’^ replied the major, 
with a laugh : “ Worm your way along, my dear Mr. Broughton,” 
continued he. — “Fie, fie. Major,” said Mrs. Broughton, in an 
undertone; “your spirits fairly run away with you.” — ^'■Highly 
rectified, madam, ha, ha, ha,” replied the major. — “ What a cox- 
comb !” said Mrs. Broughton to her husband, in a whisper. — They 
had scarcely passed, before Major McTab, wheeling round upon 
Miss Cecilia Clicket, a maiden lady, of no particular age, com- 
menced a severe attack upon the ugliness and aflfectation of the 
Broughtons ; while, at the same moment, a bevy of law-students, 
who were holding their lawless court, in a corner, were making 
themselves exceedingly merry, by mooting the question of happiness 
or misery, in case of a marriage between Clicket and McTab. 

After much edging and shoving, Mr. Broughton and his lady 
succeeded, in coming near enough to Mrs. Noodle, to accomplish the 
great object of their visit, — to execute a courtesy, in the smallest 
imaginable compass, — to force one heartless smile, — and then to 
mingle instantly with the promiscuous crowd. It was intolerable. 
— Poor Mrs. Noodle ! like many others, who have suddenly 
emerged from humble life, she had gone, headlong, to the very 
extremity of fashion. Her figure was exceedingly short, and noth- 
ing had been omitted, which the code of quality prescribed , to render 
her unlike her identical self. What was the unrelenting severity 
of the laws of Aristides or Lycurgus, compared with those of fash- 
ion! By the aid of unnatural ligatures and preposterous appen- 
dages poor Mrs. Noodle had brought herself into the similitude of a 
locon'otive hour-glass, saving that she had little thought or care of 
time still less of eternity. — The crowd was prodigious. Cato, one 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR 


237 


of those professional gentlemen, who is everywhere at home, was 
proceeding through this dense multitude, bearing a waiter, loaded 
with ice-creams and liqueurs. At the very moment when she stepped 
backward, to return Mrs. Bioughton’s salutation, she overthrew the 
first battalion of ice-creams, and ruined her new gros de Naples. — 
“Bishops are eternally in trouble,” said Major McTab. At this 
moment, the noise and rattle were suddenly suspended by reason of a 
loud and sharp cry from the adjoining apartment. Old Madam Goose, 
whose ruling passion for parties and routs was as strong at the age 
of seventy-four as it had been at sixteen, and wlio visited on crutches, 
had most unluckily planted one of her supporters on the gouty 
toe of old General McKilderkin. The silence of the assembly was 
momentary only ; and in a short time, the confusion of old voices 
and young ones, treble, tenor, and base, defied all earthly compar- 
ison. 

It must have been remarked, by every careful observer, who, at 
any period of his life, has wasted his fleeting hours in the midst of 
such costly fooleries, as were exhibiting in the mansion of the dis- 
tiller’s lady ; that no individual present is particularly desirous of 
understanding anything, which is uttered by another, but is vehe- 
mently bent upon being understood himself. The speakers are eager 
and animated, and raise their voices to the highest pitch ; while the 
listeners, if such they may be called, stand with vacant faces, twirl- 
ing their thumbs, or playing with their watch trinkets, or fans, and 
turning their eyes and their thoughts, in every direction but that 
of the speaker. 

Mrs. Noodle had been careful that no point of gentilit} should be 
overlooked ; a small apartment, adjoining the drawing room, was 
accordingly devoted to the hot whiskey punch-bowl ; which was 
continually emptied of its contents, and as constantly replenished. — 
“Positively the worst I ever tasted,” said Major McTab, to his 
next neighbor, as he turned off his glass ; “ depend upon it, the old 
fellow distilled the whiskey himself.” — -“Why, Major!” cried 
Miss Midget, who was as constant at every rout, as old Patrick 
Mahony, the undertaker, at every funeral, “you are too severe; 1 
have, certainly, tasted worse.” — “Mercy upon us,” said Mr. 
Broughton, in an under tone, as he entered the punch room, “ what 
would good Dr. Smith say to this ! I have been wondering from 
what quarter this strong smell of ardent spirit proceeded.” — “ Ha 
ha, ha! pray tell us, Broughton,” cried the major, “are you a 
member of the temperance society 1 — drink no wine, I suppose, eh ?” 
— “No, Major McTab, I am not a member of the temperance soci- 
ety,” replied Mr. Broughton, “ and I still drink my pure old wine. 


238 


WFXL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


and relish it as highly as ever. In this I can see no harm ; and, if 
the friends of temperance contemplate the exclusion of wine, tliey 
are certainly going too far, and will ruin the cause. But I must 
saj that the introduction of whiskey punch into fashionable parties, 
does not appear to me to be in perfectly good taste. It seems to me 
to amount almost to an insult to the friends of humanity.” — “ Ha, 
ha, ha : dear me, good Mr. Broughton,” rejoined McTab, with great 
vivacity; “I’ll bet a quarter-cask of Madeira against a pair of 
bands, that you ’ll take orders before this day twelve-month!” — 
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Broughton, as she jostled 
forward into the very centre of this noisy circle ; “ dear Mr. Brough- 
ton, what are you talking about? do let the temperance societies 
alone, they are well enough for the vulgar, as you have often heard 
me say, but how, in the name of common sense, can they concern 
people of fashion!” — At this moment, a rap on the centre-table 
attracted the attention of the company to the Hon. Mr. Gross, a 
gray-haired, portly gentleman, with a triple chin, and a voluminous 
countenance, overflowing with broad good humor, and indicating 
little else. This gentleman had been once a senator of the Com- 
monwealth, and he was remarkable for the measure of ease and 
unconcern, with which he reposed upon his bed of down, without 
thought or care for the harder fortunes of others. In the words of 
an extraordinary sermon, recently published, he had studied to keep 
himself aloof from the “ gustiness” of the times ; he had not suffered 
himself to be transported by the “ fervors” around him ; and he had 
carefully avoided all connection wuth the “great transient move- 
ments” of the day, such as “ Bible, education, missionary and tern 
perance societies.” In sho^t, this worthy gentleman, according to 
the outward indication of his uncommonly sleek and rosy visage, 
ate and drank to perfection, and prosed, at a terrible rate, of man’s 
independence and moral power. He very much resembled a great 
moral toad-stool, which overshadowed and sterilized to the extent 
of its circumference. — Having riveted the attention of the company, 
by a few smart raps upon the table, — “ A sentiment, my friends,” 
said the Hon. Mr. Gross ; “ with your permission, I will give you a 
sentiment.” He then filled his glass to the brim with whiskey 
punch, and, as he raised it to his lips, pronounced, amid shouts of 
daughter, “ Total abstinence ! ” 

It was now after midnight ; and Mrs. Broughton availed of the 
confusion to abstract her husband from this interesting circle of 
practical philanthropists. The parting courtesy to the hostess was 
hastily performed, and they had scarcely entered their carriage 
before Mrs. Broughton poured forth the prelude of a curtain lecturs^ 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


239 


upon gentility, and fashion, and caste, and the outlanaish absurdity 
of temperance societies. All this, Mr. Broughton patiently endured, 
with many excuses and promises of amendment. — “Well, my 
dear,” said Mr. Broughton, “ what a stupid time we have had of it. 
For my own part, I should be happy never to be jammed almost to 
death in one of these crowds again.” — “We must do it, Mr. 
Broughton,” replied his worthy partner ; “ I dislike it as much as 
you do ; but our standing in polite society, and the fortunes of 
our children make it indispensable.” This excellent couple then 
amused themselves with the follies and weaknesses, ugly faces, ana 
ill-breeding, ill-shaped dresses, and conceited airs of all those very 
dear friends, with whom they had so recently appeared to be on the 
best terms in the world. The account was unquestionably balanced, 
as the Holland merchants say, to a point ; and the Broughtons were 
not forgotten by Xheix friends. 

The festival was over. The last of the long line of carriages had 
scarcely driven from the door, before Mr. Noodle commenced the 
operation of extinguishing the lamps, and turning down the candles, 
while his estimable partner, like an indefatigable wrecker, was 
busily engaged in the collection and preservation of the remnants. 
— Without any important departure from the continuous course of 
this little narrative, may we not stop to inquire what is the real 
practical advantage of such gatherings as these ! Had the least 
imaginable benefit accrued to any individual ! Was the sum total 
of amiability increased in a single bosom ! In all this, was there 
the slightest symptom of religious, moral, or intellectual improve- 
ment ! If there were any addition to the quantum of human happi- 
ness, how can we account for the very general exclamation, bursting 
spontaneously, at the first convenient moment, from guest and 
entertainer, “ Thank Heaven, it is over! ” The Noodles had given 
mortal offence to sundry uninvited relatives and acquaintances, and 
they had added nothing to their own happiness or respectability. 
They had opened an account with the most heartless portion of their 
fellow-beings, the votaries of fashion ; whose standard of excellence 
is the depth of a flounce, or the adjustment of a feather, and the 
least perishable memorials of whose friendship are frequently exe- 
cuted in pasteboard. 

Mr. and Mrs. Broughton were met at <he door, by that paragon 
of house-keepers, good, honest Mrs. Gale, who informed them, that 
master Frederick had behaved like a little gentleman, but was 
rather feverish. Mrs. Broughton immediately repaired to the 
chamber. She found him in a violent fever; and, without any 
inquiry, in relation to the cause, directed a pint of wine-whey, which 
was faithfully administered by Mrs. Gale. 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR 


Nothing could have been farther from the minds of Mr. and Mrs. 
Broughton, than the suspicion, that master Frederick was then under 
the influence of liquor. A skilful reasoner would have undertaken 
a very difficult task, had he attempted to convince Mr. Broughton 
of the fact, even if the veracious Mrs. Gale had been prevailed on 
to disclose the whole truth. The little fellow had taken nothing 
but excellent old wine, which Mri Broughton believed to be a most 
innocent beverage. It was indeed true, that master Frederick had 
taken nothing but excellent old wine ; but it was not less true, that 
master Frederick was absolutely drunk. There is nothing unusual 
or unaccountable in this. The premises were certainly strong 
enough to support the conclusion. The quantity of “ excellent old 
wine,^^ which he had taken at the dinner-table, with his father and 
mother, by way of perfecting himself in the practice of propi- 
nation, as the process of health-drinking was styled, among the old 
topers of Rome, had beeu quite sufficient to produce that distur- 
bance of the functions of the brain, in a mere child, which may be 
called the first stage of drunkenness. In the language of the tem- 
perate drinker, the quantity he had already taken, had made him “/eeZ 
better;’^ he was of opinion, that there could not be too much of a 
good thing ; and as he had no objection to a farther improvement of 
his condition, he had proceeded to those subsequent indulgences 
with Tom, the negro boy, which had been interrupted, as we have 
already related, by Mrs. Gale. When he threw himself upon his 
bed, he was certainly drunk. How many thousands, male and 
female, young and old, have been reduced to the same condition 
upon “ excellent old wine^ which never hurt afiy;''’ and whom nobody 
esex the worse for liquor If any parent should marvel at 

the production of drunkenness, in one so young, by the use of two 
or three glasses of “ excellent old wine,” we can only marvel, in 
turn, at such lamentable ignorance of cause and effect. If the aged 
patriarch of the flood was “ drunken,’’' as he certainly was, upon the 
fermented juice of the grape, which contained not the smallest 
particle of distilled alcohol ; may not the same result at least be 
expected, in an adult, and more surely in a child, from the use of 
that “ excellent old wine,” which is proved, by chemical analysis, 
to contain a large amount of added alcohol, the product of distil- 
lation 1 

Those years, which, to a parent’s observation, appear to creep 
slowly, from the cradle to the age of eight or ten, seem to acquire 
additional celerity, from that half-way house to the goal of man- 
hood. Through many similar passages, and under the miserable 
discipline of such injudicious parents, Frederick Broughton had 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


241 


ftdvarced to the age, not of discretion, but of eighteen years. 
He was about to graduate at the university. By reason of special 
favor, he had been enabled to retain his position, to the close of his 
collegiate career. He had nearly completed his education ; and, if 
he had acquired a high reputation, in any particular department, it 
was in that, wherein his fond mother was so desirous that he should 
excel ; it was agreed, on all hands, that, as practice makes perfect, 
no young gentleman took his glass in better style, than Frederick 
Broughton. Shortly after he left the university, he entered his 
name in the office of an eminent barrister ; and, having hung up his 
hat on a particular nail, three or four times a week, for the space of 
throe years, he was admitted to practice at the bar. Frederick was 
an extremely idle, and very gentlemanly fellow ; and nothing could 
have been more repugnant to his disposition than those habits of 
labor, without which no permanent distinction can ever be acquired 
in this laborious profession. He opened an office, however, as a 
matter of course, in which he sate, two or three hours a day, for 
half a year. His ill success was a source of infinite surprise to his 
parents, and particularly to Mrs. Broughton. He had received a 
liberal education ; his manners were highly polished ; and, at bar 
dinners, it was acknowledged, that nobody took his glass in such a 
gentlemanly style, as Frederick Broughton. — His fond parents 
became persuaded, that he was intended for something better than 
the mere drudgery of the law. Frederick was by no means deficient 
in personal appearance, and he was unanimously elected to the com- 
mand of a militia company ; for which office, during the “ piping 
times of peace,” he was by no means indifferently qualified. The 
law was as easily abandoned, as any other object, which had attracted 
the fancy without affecting the heart. He was exceedingly popular. 
Training and treating soon became the absorbing considerations of 
his existence. It was now very commonly understood, that Captain 
Broughton was a dear lover of good liquor. He was liberal, and 
even lavish, in his entertainments. His promotion was a matter of 
course, and he was soon elected colonel of the regiment ; upon 
which occasion he gave a striking evidence of his attachment to the 
service, by getting so helplessly drunk, that it became necessary to 
cany him home in a carriage, from the public house. Mr. and Mrs. 
Brc aghton were excessively shocked by this unexpected occ urrence ; 
but they w’ere greatly relieved, on the following morning, upon the 
coffinel’s “ ’pon honor, dear father, ’twas nothing but excellent 
old wine, from your own cellar, and which never hurt a fly.” 
At this period it was not esteemed so very disgraceful to be drunk, 
rvfBcially for militia colonels, as it is at the present day. Colonel 
yOL. I. 21 


242 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR, 


Broughton’s “ high go,” as it was called, so far from operating to 
his disadvantage, was considered an evidence of spirit. It certainly 
did not obstruct, but rather tended to advance his further promotion 
to the office of brigadier general, which occurred about six months 
afterwards. 

General Broughtqn had long passed that era, at which young 
men, who have a just regard for the proprieties of life, and a proper 
sense of shame, are desirous of taking up the implements of honest 
industry, for their own support ; and of avoiding even the appear- 
ance of dependence upon their indulgent fathers. Such considera- 
tions did not appear to have the slightest influence in disturbing the 
general’s equanimity. The law, as we have suggested, seemed to 
be abandoned. Broughton was a good-natured man, and no one 
was ever more ready than himself, to laugh heartily at his feeble 
attempt, or to admit his entire ignorance of the profession. He 
frankly declared, that, beside some half dozen collection cases, lie 
never had more than one client in his life, of whom he gave the 
following amusing account, during a military supper, where he had 
not drunk more than half a dozen glasses. “ He was an Irishman ; 
his name was Phelim McGrath,” said the general ; “ I was sitting 
in my office, with a cigar in my mouth, reading Byron’s Don Juan. 
The door flew open, and this fellow exclaimed, in great haste, 
‘ Is ’t y’ur honor’s worship that ’ll gi’ me a prosecution, right 
spaadOy, to arrist my own ’orse, onyhow?’ — ‘What ails your 
horse, Phelim?’ said I. — ‘The raal ’orse ail is it, I ’m thinking, 
y’ur honor,’ said he. — ‘ Well, Phelim,’ said I, ‘ I ’m not a horse- 
doctor; what can I do for your beast?’ — ‘ A baste indeed he was, 
that same that staal’d him, last October come agin, a yaar it was. 
nor moor.’ — ‘Ay, now I understand you,’ said I; ‘you wish to 
arrest the man, and not the beast.’ — ‘ Sowl o’ me, it ’s not the lilce 
o’ that naather,’ answered Phelim ; ‘ I cares not a farden aboot the 
mon, if I can arrist the baste.’ — ‘ Well, Phelim,’ said I, ‘ begin at 
the beginning, and tell me your story.’ — ‘That wud be swaater 
nor a buttered pratie, ony dee,’ cried Phelim ; ‘ but jist now Isc 
faaring my ’orse wud be trutting aff. It ’s jist this, your honor : 
Paddy O’Neal rin aff wid my ’orse, and he soult him ; and tliis it is 
I wants your honor to prove, for there ’s not a spick o’ tistimony, at 
all, at all ; only Paddy was long in that a way afore he lift county 
Cark, and he was a tin hour mon; so it kim aisy and convanient, 
ye see, to stale the ’orse. — Now, Ise jist saad the ’orse at the 
tavern door, and I wants to know if 1 may tak him away fro’ the 
prisent owner, that is, fro’ the mon Avhat doesn’t ov^n a hair o’ 
him.’ — I was not a little perplexed 1/ this unexpected draft u, on 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


243 


ipy professional bank, continued the general ; however, I looked as 
gravely as possible, and, taking down Jacob's law dictionary, 
turned over the leaves, for the title, horse. This gave me a little 
time for reflection. ‘ I find nothing upon the subject, Pheliin,’ said 
I ; ‘ had he a saddle on, when he was stolen ?’ — ‘ Indaad, he had, 
your honor,’ replied Phelim, ‘and a sniffle bridle, to boot ; and it’s 
jist there, it is, that Paddy wull be after gitting his nick fro’ the 
c.fllar: he’s confiss’d ’twas his own self that staal’d the bridle, 
01 yhow, but he ’ll not own that the ’orse was at the tither end o’ it.’ 
— I looked out saddle, and then, bridle, and, finally, told Phelim, 
that, as he had been so unfortunate, I should not charge him any 
fee for my opinion, but that it was a new case, entirely. ‘And 
pray, your honor,’ said Phelim, ‘wud it mak any differ, if I shud 
till ye that same ’orse was a brown mare?’ — ‘Not in the least, 
Phelim,’ said I. — I have never had a strong relish for the profession, 
from that time,” said Broughton, with a good-natured laugh. 

It soon became a common custom with this unhappy young gen- 
tleman, upon all such convivial occasions, which were neither “ few 
nor far between,” to talk on, and drink on, long after the wine- 
drinker’s jest became stale and unmeaning, to the water-drinker’s 
ear. Upon such occasions, he was escorted home, by one or more 
trusty companions of the bottle, and the midnight revel frequently 
terminated in some flagrant violation of those laws of nature, which 
have provided the shades of night for the repose of man. Upon the 
following day, some kind pacificator satisfied the watchman, for a 
broken head, with a liberal douceur, and the city lamps were sf eedily 
repaired, at private charge. Broughton was a very '‘’‘gentlemanly 
fellow — a high blade, to be sure ; — but all these excesses were 
committed, under the stimulus of a gentlemanly beverage ! 

When, after these debauches, he arrived at his father’s dwelling, 
the back door was softly opened by the faithful Ashur, unless he 
happened himself to be too entirely drunk for the office ; in which 
t,ase, it was performed, by “ good, honest, mistress Gale,” who was 
not less ready to conceal the vices of the man, than the follies of 
the boy. 

These revels were becoming so frequent as to attract the atten- 
tion, and excite the serious apprehension of the elder Mr. Brough- 
ton’s connections and family friends. But his common reply, to 
their suggestions and warnings, indicated a remarkable degree of 
itriiorance, in relation to the force of that perilous habit of drinking, 
which frequently terminates in abiding drunkenness, on the most 
vulgJir Inobriants, though it may have commenced upon the most 
costly at d classical beverage. — “ Ah, my dear sir,” he would often 


244 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


reply, “ Frederick is a gay young man, but he drinks nothing hut 
wine. He can be in no possible danger. If it were brandy, or ary 
species of distilled spirit, I should have cause to fear. Alcohol, in 
any form, is a great curse^ I have no doubt, but good old wine never 
hurt a fly.” Such was the ordinary reply of this misguided parent, 
grounded, as every judicious reader will readily perceive, in that 
popular delusion, which Ins long and extensively prevailed, that 
alcohol exists in distilled spirit alone, and not in all intoxicating 
liquors. 

About this period, Mr. Broughton found himself compelled, by a 
regard for his personal safety, and that of his family, to dismiss his 
old coachman, Ashur Jennison. He was now almost continually 
tipsy, and had lately upset the carriage, and put the life of Mrs. 
Broughton in imminent danger. Ashur was called up into the 
parlor, to receive his wages. “I can keep you no longer,” said 
Mr. Broughton. — Ashur hung his head. “You have served me 
fifteen years, and I have borne with the evil consequences of this 
beastly habit long enough.” — The poor fellow bit his lip. — 
“You’ve been a kind master to me, sir,” said he; “I know I 
deserve to be sent off.” — “ Ashur,” said Mr. Broughton, after a 
pause, “ do you think it possible for you to give up brandy and rum, 
entirely ?” — “I wish to speak the truth, sir,” said the poor fellow, 
“ and I don’t really think I shall ever be able to.” — “ Well, then, 
Ashur, there are your wages ; we must part,” said Mr. Broughton ; 
“ I advise you, however, to make an effort, and sign the pledge of 
the temperance society.” — “ Thank you, sir, for your kind wishes 
and good advice,” replied Ashur, “but I’m past all that, your 
honor ; I don’t believe I could hold out a week. But if you ’ll give 
me leave to speak my mind, I think it would be a good thing, if 
young mister Frederick could be prevailed on to join the temperance 
society.” — “Jennison,” said Mrs. Broughton, “ what do you mean 
by such insolence?” — “ I didn’t mean nothing improper, ma’am,” 
said Ashur, with evident surprise; “I’ve known the ginral so 
many years, that it came more natural to call him mister Frederick.” 
— “I care nothing about that, Jennison,” rejoined Mrs. Broughton, 
“ but it is highly insolent for you to speak of the general’s joining 
such a thing as the temperance society, when he drinks nothing but 
wine. The society is well enough for the vulgar, and those vdio 
aie in the habit of drinking brandy and rum, but I should think you 
had lost your senses as well as your manners, to propose such a 
thing for your young master.” — “I meant no harm,” said the poor 
fellow, “ and if I had n’t a regard for the ginral, I shouhl n’t have 
said what I did. — May I tell a short story, sir?” said he, turning 


WELL EiNOLGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


245 


to Ml, Broughton. — Mr. Broughton assented. — “ Well, sir,” said 
Ashur, “ my father bound me out to a wine-merchant, when I was 
twelve years old. He sold brandy and gin, also. I disliked them 
both, but 1 soon got a strong relish for wine, and, at the end of six 
months, I was turned off, for being often tipsy. I next drove a 
brewer’s dray, and lost my place, for getting drunk with beer. The 
relish for brandy and gin soon came along, and now I have lost my 
place, for being drunk with rum. I dare not promise to leave it off. 

I promised my father to leave off drinking wine, and I broke my 
word. I promised my mother that I would give up beer and porter, 
but I couldn’t keep my promise. I was once near being married, 
and I promised the young woman that I would never drink any strong 
drink. I kept my word for several months, and she got all things 
in readiness for our wedding. But I could not hold out. I took 
three or four drams in one evening, and got quite tipsy. She found 
it out. When I went to see her, the next day, — ‘ Ashur,’ said 
she, ‘ I love you, dearly, but I will never be your wife ; if you can- 
not keep your promise before marriage, I am sure you will not 
after.’ — So, your honor sees, how one liquor follows another. I 
meant no offence, though, in saying that I hoped mister Frederick 
would join a temperance society.” 

The next week, Ashur Jennison delivered up the insignia of his 
office, the curry-comb and brush, to his successor ; and, taking an 
affectionate leave of his horses, went forth once again to seek his 
fortunes in the world. After having gone a few rods from the 
stable, he returned, to inform Roger, the new coachman, that he 
must remember to wash old Sorrel’s legs, daily, with New England. 

“It is very surprising,” said Mrs-. Broughton, as she and her 
husband were sitting at the tea-table, on the evening after Ashur ’s 
dismissal, “ that he should have presumed to speak of Frederick’s • 
loining a temperance society.” — “I don’t think he meant any 
offence,” said her husband, after a short pause. — “ Only think of 
it, my dear,” rejoined the lady, “ how entirely all the boundaries 
would be taken away, between the common people and ourselves, 
if we should become members of those societies, which are designed 
expressly for the vulgar!” — Mr. Broughton sat silently, twirling 
his thumbs, and with an unusual solemnity of manner. The simple 
truth of poor Ashur’s narrative, had perhaps affected him more 
deeply than he himself imagined. Mrs. Broughton fixed her gaze 
intently upon her husband, for she was unaccustomed to see him 
wear an expression of so much sadness and anxiety. — “ What is 
the matter, my dear 1” said Mrs. Broughton. — He raised his eyes, 
Buffiised with tears, and, with a trembling lip, exclaimed, as he rose 
21 * 


VOL. I. 


246 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


from his chair, and placed his hand upon his forehead, “ Mercif»v 
God ! what would become of me, if Frederick should ever bo a 
drunkard !” — “ Why, Mr. Broughton, what can you mean !” ex- 
claimed his astonished partner ; “ Frederick drinks nothing but 
wine, which, as you have always said, never hurt a fly And I 
have heard our family physician. Dr. Farrago, say the same thing. 
He says, it helps digestion, and is exceedingly nutritious.” — “ Ah, 
my dear, as our good pastor. Dr. Smith, has often said, there is an 
alphabet in intemperance, and he, who learns the first letter, will be 
very apt to learn enough of those that follow, to spell out destruc- 
tion, before he dies.” — “ Why, you really make me nervous, Mr. 
Broughton,” said his lady, “ and I am afraid you are quite so, your- 
self, already. Our Frederick a drunkard!” — “God forbid,” 
replied her husband, “ but I will honestly confess, there is, in poor 
Ashur’s story, a perfect, practical illustration of the opinions, which 
I have heard good Dr. Smith express, on more occasions than one. 
Besides, my dear, it cannot be denied, that we have waited long, 
very long, for Frederick to relinquish these excesses, which are 
pardonable, according to our way of thinking, in young men, until 
a certain period. He seldom dines at home ; in the evening he is 
constantly out ; he commonly returns, after we have retired, and 
not always, as I fear, in a perfectly sober condition. — I shall sit up 

for him, to-night, myself.” 

Having no engagement for the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Broughton 
sought a refuge from themselves, and their anxious thoughts, in a 
game of piquet. The deep, unconscious sigh, which frequently 
escaped, plainly indicated, that the fears and forebodings of an 
anxious father had, at length, been thoroughly awakened. “ Let 
us put away the cards, husband,” said Mrs. Broughton, after a 
spiritless hour, “ for we cannot possibly enjoy them.” — These 
senseless toys, these miserable murderers of time, were accordingly 
laid aside. — Mr. Broughton rose from his chair, and began to walk 
across the apartment, in silence. His lady drew some fancy work 
from her table, and endeavored to occupy herself with her needle. 
— The parlor clock struck eleven. — “ Where can he be to-night, 
my dear?” said Mr. Broughton. — “Indeed,” she replied, “you 
mak:3 yourself needlessly unhappy, my dear. I almost wish good 
Dr. Smith was here, to converse with you. I think you would feel 
oetter, after half an hour’s conversation with him. You have always 
said, that you never knew any person, from whom you could derive 
such comfort, in your perplexities, as from our worthy pastor.” — 
“ I am afraid,” replied her husband, “ that the present occasion 
would prove an excepted case. In truth. I have never told you, how 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


247 


f -cn and how earnestly the good old man has M'^arned me, that, I 
had mich to fear upon Frederick’s account. He has often urged 
*tie to join the temperance society, for the sake of the example 
rf^fore my son.” — Mrs. Broughton put up her needle-Avork. — 
‘ Come, cheer up, my dear,” said she ; “ I wish Dr. Farrago was 
; he would laugh you out of these humors. I do not doubt, 
that a cheerful glass, and a little pleasant chat, such as you will find 
At Major Ferguson’s, where we dine, to-morrow, you know, will 

lissipate these blue , these unpleasant feelings, altogether.” — 

•Mir. Broughton made no reply. — The clock struck twelve. — Ho 
.i-pened the window-shutter, and looked out upon the night. It was 
,/oad, bright moonlight. — As he was retiring from the window, he 
/.eard the outer gate, as it closed ; and, looking forth, perceived 
fiiree persons advancing up the yard. He almost immediately 
recognized the person of his son, supported by two of his associates, 
/or he was evidently unable to walk. “Gracious heaven!” he 
exclaimed, as he clasped his hands together. — Mrs. Broughton 
rushed to the window, and gazed upon the scene before her. She 
beheld her only child, helplessly drunk, — him whom she had her 
self initiated in the mystery of taking his glass of pure old wine, 
like a gentleman ! His companions appeared anxious to urge him 
towards the door ; but he seemed resolved to linger, and, stretching 
forth his hand in an awkward and imbecile manner, he stood for a 
few moments, pouring forth a torrent of unmeaning oaths, with the 
broken voice and vacant stare of a drunkard. At length they suc- 
ceeded in reaching the back door. But the sympathizing Ashur 
was no longer there. The new coachman, Roger Jones, who had 
been left to sit up for the general, by “ good, honest mistress Gale,” 
recei ved him at the door. Roger had not been sufficiently instructed 
in this delicate department of his office. Instead therefore of smug- 
gling and coaxing the young gentleman to his private chamber, as 
secretly and speedily as possible, he sustained him as far as the 
parlor door, and there left him to his own self-government. — The 
door having been opened by Roger, this unhappy young man stag- 
gered forward, and fell headlong on the parlor floor, almost at his 
father’s feet. He uttered a deep groan, but was obviously unable 
to rise. The noise and confusion soon brought mistress Gale from 
her quarters. — “ Dear me, ma’am,” said this unsuspecting paragon 
of all virtuous and trustworthy house-keepers, as she rushed into 
the apartment, “ v/hat can be the matter with dear mister Frederick’ 
no doubt le has eaten something that has thrown him into fits.” — 
“ MercRuj heaven !” cried Mr. Broughton, “ what is this’” taking 
from the carpet a Spanish knife, covered with blood. — “ His hand 


243 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


and the bosom of his shirt, are covered with blood, sir, ’ said Roger, 
who had also entered the parlor, with one or two slaves of the 
household. “ Lord, have mercy upon us,” cried mistress Gale, ar 
tlie top of her lungs, “ he is murdered ! my young master is mur' 
dered !” — A sharp shriek, followed by the sound of a falling body 
upon the floor, drew all eyes, for a moment, to the agonized mother, 
who lay struggling in convulsions. The outcry, which immediately 
filled the apartment, revived, however feebly and vaguely. General 
Broughton’s recollections of the bacchanalian scene, in which he had 
recently borne a distinguished part. He still imagined himself there. 
The momentary belief that he was dead, soon gave way to a per- 
manent and comparatively comfortable conviction that he was 
thoroughly drunk, when, with a vain effort to rise, he exclaimed in, 
a voLe scarcely articulate, and with a terrible oath, which it is quite 
unnecessary to repeat, “Waiter, let’s have a dozen more of the 
same brand ! ’ ’ 

While Mrs. Gale was occupied, with the aid of other female 
domestics, in the restoration of their lady, the unhappy father, 
assisted by Roger, had conveyed the young man to his apartment, 
and placed him in bed. Though his right hand, and the wristband 
and bosom of his shirt, as well as the blade of his Spanish knife 
were covered with blood, not the slightest wound could be discov- 
ered on his person. It may not be improper, incidentally to state the 
fact, that, however unusual at the North, nothing is more common 
in several of the Western and Southern States, than this barbarous 
personal appendage, the dirk, or Spanish knife. There are not a 
few, who w'ould deem the duties of the toilette insufficiently per- 
formed, until their dirks and Spanish knives were securely depos- 
ited at their backs, or in their bosoms. We have seen grave 
judges, and barristers, and physicians, and members of the national 
legislature, exhibiting these implements on their persons, without the 
slightest apparent disposition to conceal them. 

It was evident to Mr. Broughton, that his son had been engaged 
in some personal encounter; perhaps, thought he, — and the cold 
drops started upon his brow, — in some deed of murder ! It would 
have been absurd to seek any explanation from this wretched young 
man. No human power could, at that time, have roused him from 
his drunken stupor. 

There w^as no member of this household, saving these agonized 
parents themselves, who suffered, upon the present occasion, more 
acutely than poor Tom, the negro boy, whom the reader will readily 
remember as master Frederick’s domestic associate, in his juveuiie 
revels. No sooner had he heard the cry of mistress (iale, that her 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


249 


young maptt*r was murdered, than he rushed forth, with the speed 
of the wind, for Dr. Farrago. The strong affection of this poor slave 
may be easily explained. Tom was the young general's foster broth- 
er. The same negress nursed them both ; and it is quite common, at 
the South and West, to encourage this feeling of attachment, which 
such a peculiar relation at the breast may he expected to originate. 

The doctor dressed himself with all possible expedition, and was 
soon at the patient's door. There he was met by Mrs. Broughton, 
who had sufficiently recovered to give her personal attendance upon 
her son. — “ Dear Dr. Farrago,” said she, “ how good you are, to 
come so quickly!” — “Always a pleasure, always a pleasure, I 
assure you; but what’s the matter, my dear madam?” — “Oh, 
dear doctor, I don’t know ; pray walk up stairs.” — The doctor was 
ushered into the apartment ; and, with all that adroitness, which is 
a certain characteristic of a skilful practitioner, he immediately mod- 
ulated the expression of his countenance by that of the principal fig- 
ure in the group. “ Dear sir,” said he, to Mr. Broughton, with a 
most impressive gravity of features, “ what is the matter Muth our 
young friend ; has he applied himself too steadily to his profession ?” 
— Mr. Broughton shook his head ; and the doctor proceeded to feel 
the young gentleman’s pulse. — “Bless me! what is this? — 
blood !” — Mr. Broughton then gave the doctor a detailed account 
of the occurrences of the evening, so far as he could explain them. 
The doctor looked as much wiser than Hippocrates, as possible, and 
after a solemn pause, — “ This,” said he, “ is the result of a little 
frolic, — a high go, — yes, madam, a high go, — a spree, as they 
sometimes call it ; but evidently, as I perceive by the breath, upon 
wine, and, therefore, perfectly harmless.” — “ Oh, dear doctor Far- 
rago,” cried Mrs. Broughton, seizing his hand, “ how greatly you 
relieve me. There ’s poor Mr. Broughton would have joined a 
temperance society, before morning, and I ’m sure we never could 
have shown ourselves in genteel company, after that.” — “ Pshaw, 
pshaw, my dear madam,” cried the doctor, “ temperance societies 

are well enough for the vulgar, and for ” — “ Therq, Mr. 

Broughton,” said his lady, interrupting the doctor, “just as I told 
you.” — “ Yes, madam,” continued the doctor, “ Avell enough for 
the vulgar, and your rum, and gin, and brandy topers, your folks that 
drink alcohol, in any form ; but wine is a very different affair.” — 
“ Pray, doctor,” said Mr. Broughton, “ will it not be well to pre- 
scribe some medicine for Frederick ?” — “ Not at all, my dear sir, 
let him sleep it off. He has an excellent constitution ; it can do 
him no possible harm. Wine, sir, is an innocent beverage; no 
>’cohol there, sir, ntt a particle ■ I insist oc the distinction ; noth- 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAL. 


2/)0 

ing- but the elements. Alcohol is the entire froduct of distillation, 
and not the educt. It is not a poison, sir ; it is very easy of diges- 
tion, and subserves the purposes of alimentation and nutrition. As 
to the elements, that may be present, the prophylactic energies of 
combination neutralize their virus. Give yourself no uneasiness, 
whatever ; the general will be himself again, to-morrow morning.” 

— “ But, Doctor Farrago, what can have occasioned this blood?” 
inquired Mr. Broughton, with evident anxiety. “ Easily accounted 
for, sir,” rejoined the doctor, briskly, “ in fifty ways. He may have 
had a bleeding at the nose, and, when a little corny, he may r/ive 
wiped it with the back of his hand, and gotten the blood upon his 
wristband ; a portion may have dropped upon his shirt-bosom, &c. 
As I said before, give yourself no uneasiness ; I will call, sir, after 
breakfast. Good night, my dear sir; good night, madam.” 

The doctor had departed. — Mr. Broughton sat upon the bed-side, 
looking intently upon the bloated and distorted features of his son. 

— “ How very comforting it is to have such a visit, at such a time, 
from dear Dr. Farrago,” said Mrs. Broughton. — Her husband made 
no reply. — “ Mr. Broughton,” she continued, “ you seem to have 
lost your confidence in Dr. Farrago, and, I am fearful, from his 
manner, that he perceives it. He is, certainly, a very learned man, 
and I have been told that he has a whole trunk-full of diplomas. 
Did you not notice what he said of the energies of confutation?” — 
“ My dear,” said her husband, “ 1 will frankly own to you, that I 
have lost a part of my confidence in the doctor. No man has 
Jone so much to impress me with a belief, that wine is harmless ; 
t)ut here is our boy, utterly drunk ! He has been in the same con- 
dition, before ; am I to believe, that this habit, engendered upon the 
purest wine, can be long continued, without sapping his constitu- 
tion? Has it not already diminished his respectability, and tended 
to produce habits of idleness and dissipation ? Contemplate the last 
two hours ! I would not undergo, for worlds of wealth, the agony 
I have suffered in that brief space of time. The doctor tells us 
there is no alcohol in wine. Dr. Smith assures me there is ; and he 
was once an eminent physician and chemist, before he devoted 
himself to the ministry. Have I not been strangely and fatally 
deceived ? Have 1 not suffered my own fondness for wine to lead 
me into error, and to keep me there? Have I not listened with 
partial attention to all the suggestions of Dr. Farrago, and :)ther 
individuals, in favor of this beverage, because I was eager to defend 
an object of my early and lasting attachment? Ah, my dear, I am 
satisfied, that, as our good pastor has often said, wine is a mocker, a 
deceiver ” — At this moment, the street door-bell rang violently 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


251 


and interrupted Mr. Broughton’s remarks. He looked at his watch. 
“ It is nearly two o’clock,” said he ; “ what can thk mean !” — 
The bell was again rung, after a few seconds, with redoubled vio- 
lence. — “ God help me !” said Mr. Broughton, in a faltering voice, 
as he rose to open the chamber door; “ bad tidings come rapidly 
enough; I fear this is some messenger of evil.” The door was 
unlocked by the negro, Tom, whose voice was soon heard in con- 
versation with a stranger. This faithful fellow had cohected the 
impression, from the remarks of one and another, that some species 
of mischief, of whose nature he had no definite conception, awaited 
his young master. — “ Is General Broughton at homeT’ said the 
stranger, evidently in a hasty manner. — “ Massa Broughton go out 
afore dinner, and I no see him since,” replied the wary fellow. His 
answer was literally true, and his code of morals had been acquired, 
at the feet of “ good, honest mistress Gale.” — “ Do you know 
where I can find him?” inquired the stranger. “I guess so,” 
replied Tom. — “ Let me know, then,” rejoined he, with increas- 
ing earnestness. “ You know, I s’pose, where’hout de Cath’lic 
church stand,” said Tom. — “Very well,” replied the other, 
“ make haste.” — “ Den, I s’pose you know, up treet, tarnal great 
way, turn two time right about, dere tall big house, wid green blind, 
don know, zacly, wedder green, or nudder color, all alone, great 
many house dere, all round him : den you go east, may be, west, 

don know, half a mile, clear off, tudder way, ” “ Peace, you 

varlet,” said the stranger, throwing his cloak from before his face : 
“ do you know me, now?” — “ Goly, gosh ! massa Bentley, how you 
cheat Tom, no tink ’twas a you.” — Tom, being satisfied, that the 
inquirer was one of the general’s aids, and most intimate friends, 
was now as communicative, as he had been reserved and wary 
before. — “ Gin’ral come home, little ober de bay, ha, ha, ha, dat 
all, massa Bentley : sound sleep, now. ’Cause, got little blood on 
his hand, missy Gale make great big hullabaloo, and Doctor Thor- 

oughgo been here, and ” “ Hold your tongue,” said the 

major, “ and tell the old gentleman, his father, I wish to see him, 
as soon as possible.” — “Yes, massa,” replied Tom. — Mr. 
Broughton had listened to this conversation from the upper landing, 
and now descended to the parlor. — “For Heaven’s sake, major,” 
said he, as soon as the doors were closed, “ relieve me from this 
condition of anxiety, which is driving me mad. Explain this painful 
mystery, I beseech you, if you can.” — “ Your son, my dear sir,” 
said the major, “ must fly, or be concealed.” — “ Father of mercy !” 
exclaimed this wretched parent, leaping from his seat, “ wliat do 
yni mean?” — “Be composed, I beseech you, Mr. Broughton,” 


252 


WELL ENOUGH FOR ."HE VULGAR. 


said the major, rising and placing his hand upon the arm of the half 
distracted man. “ Summon up your fortitude, I entreat you. 
There is really no time for delay, or I would break the matter more 
gently and gradually. Your son, under the influence of liquor, and 
probably unconscious of his conduct, has stabbed young Colling- 
wood, his cousin.” — “ What an idiot I have been!” cried Mr. 
Broughton, striking his forehead with great vehemence; “is he 
dead ?” — “ No sir,” replied the major, “ but doctor Floyer, who 
was immediately called, stated expressly, that the wound Avas, in all 
probability, mortal.” — “ And where is he, where is George Col- 
iingwood, now?” inquired Mr. Broughton. — “The alfray took 
place not far from his mother’s house,” replied the major, “and 
they carried the unfortunate young man irfimediately there.” — 
“ My poor widov/ed sister !” exclaimed Mr. Broughton, in a par- 
oxysm of grief and anguish, “ the only remaining stay of her old 
age, cut down by a child of mine ! Oh, my God, my God, why do 
I live ! can it be required of me to remain longer in this miserable 
world !” — “I entreat you, sir,” said Major Bentley, with much 
emphasis, “ to compose your feelings. Will you not, before it is 
too late, proceed to adopt such measures as may secure your son 
from the pursuit of the officers ot justice?’’ — “ Never,” exclaimed 
Mr. Broughton, stamping his foi»t with great violence upon the 
floor ; “I will not shield even my own son from the arm of the law, 
since he has made a devoted sister, the dear companion of my early 
days, childless in her old age.” The decided tone, in which these 
words were delivered, so entirely at variance with the general char- 
acter of Mr. Broughton, satisfied his visitor, that all further inter- 
ference would be vain. 

Mr. Broughton continued to traverse the apartment, with great 
agitation of manner, occasionally stopping for an instant and placing 
his hand upon his forehead. — “ Ah, Major Bentley,” he exclaimed, 
“ how much of all my present misery is attributable to the influence 
of that dissipated society, with which this unhappy young man has 
been connected. These military associations have brought him to 
his ruin. Why could you not have interposed, and stayed rry mis- 
guided son in his mad career?” — “ Mr. Broughton ” replied this 
amiable young man, for such in reality he was, “ I perceive that 
you have not a correct impression of the painful relation, in which, 
for some time past, I have been placed towards your son. You 
will do rne great injustice, if you suppose that a participation in these 
unhappy ^enes has been a necessary consequence of our military 
connop.tion. A common friend roused me from my bed to communi- 
cate t'ds distressing event. I have urged your son, by every con- 


WEI.L ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


253 


Bideration, to abandon his perilous career. I have a sister, my dear 
sir, -whom you well know ; — whether you also know, that your son 
has repeatedly offered her his hand in marriage, I am ignorant, of 
course. Had she been left to the influence of her own affectionate 
heart, she would, probably, be now the chief sufferer among those, 
who deplore over this terrible catastrophe. As it is, she will sym- 
pathize most truly, with those who may he called to suffer, I con- 
fess to you, that, however an alliance with your family wofild have 
been a source of happiness to us all, under other circumstances, 1 
have been, myself, the chief instrument in opposing the wishes of 
your son. And it is a mere act of justice, to declare that his highly 
honorable feelings have induced him to treat me with undiminished 
regard, notwithstanding I have frankly avowed to him the agency I 
have had in the disappointment of his hopes. My own example of 
entire abstinence, enjoined upon me in early life, by a kind father, 
has been added to my earnest solicitation, when conversing with 
your son, as I frequently have done.” — “Father of mercy!” 
exclaimed Mr. Broughton, as he clasped his hands, and burst into 
tears, “ how devoutly I now wish my poor Frederick had been 

blessed with the precept and example of such a father.” 

At this moment, Mrs. Broughton entered the parlor ; she had 
been informed, that the gentleman below was Major Bentley, and, 
very naturally concluded, that his visit, at this unusual hour, had 
some immediate relation to the present condition of her son. It 
was not easy for Major Bentley to conceal from her the real occasion 
of his visit. The painful recital of the facts, which it was impos- 
sible to avoid, produced a repetition of that distressing scene, which 
had occurred an hour or two before, at the period of the young 
gentleman’s return. Mrs. Broughton fell again into hysterics, and 
was conveyed to her chamber. The treatment of this malady had, 
from long experience with her mistress, become perfectly familiar to 
Mrs. Gale. Upon the present, as upon many similar occasions, she 
recovered in a short time, and sunk into a deep slumber. 

It was half-past eight o’clock, before she awoke ; and she was 
delighted to learn from Mrs. Gale, that Frederick was still under 
the influence of profound sleep, and that her bosom friend and trusty 
cciinsellor, old madam Frattle, had been waiting impatiently to see 
her, for more than an hour. This incomparable old lady had 
acquired the earliest intelligence of the catastrophe. — “ You should 
have waked me sooner, Gale \ show madam Frattle into my cham- 
ber, immediately. But where is Mr. Broughtonl” — “ He went 
over to his sister’s, Mrs. Collingwood’s, madam,” replied Mrs. Gale, 
‘ with Major Bentley, about half past three o’clock, this morning, 
"■oIj. I. 22 


254 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


and has rot since returned.” — -“I hope,” rejoined her mistress, 
“that yo^ng Collingwood’s wound will not prove mortal, though I 
am sure he was in the wrong to put Frederick in a passion, as I 
have no doubt he did. But I hope he will not die ; it would be 
such a disagreeable thing to his mother ; — help me to dress. Gale, 
but first show up Mrs. Frattle.” — The visitor was soon shown into 
tlie apartment. — “ Bless you, dear Mrs. Frattle, how good it is in 
you to take this trouble, at such an early hour, too.” — “How 
could I be absent from you at such a time, my dearl” replied 
madam Frattle ; — “ How is our dear Frederick?” — “ He is doing 
very well. Dr. Farrago says. We were a little alarmed, when 
Frederick first came home, on account of some blood upon his hand 
and bosom, so we sent for the doctor ; but he made very light of it, 
and told us not to be alarmed. He said it was nothing but a frolic, 
and that Frederick had been drinking a little wine, which could not 
possibly hurt him. Dear Mrs. Frattle, what a learned man Dr. 
F arrago is ; I wish you could have heard what he said about the 
popylactic energies of confutation.” — “ But, my dear Mrs. Brough- 
ton, if poor Collingwood’s wound should prove mortal, if would be 
a sad affair.” — “ Dear me, Mrs. Frattle, you don’t think Colling- 
wood will die, — Gale, give me some lavender compound, and my 
eau de cologne.” — “I hope not,” replied her friend. — “Oh, 1 
cannot think it is much more than a flesh wound,” rejoined Mrs. 
Broughton. — “Why, as to that, my dear. Dr. Floyer says the 
ilirk has pierced the lungs,” rejoined this blessed comforter. — 
“ Why, dear Mrs. Frattle, you frighten me out of my wits,” cried 
Mrs. Broughton; — “Gale, pour more cologne upon my handker- 
chief.” — “ But Dr. Floyer says,” continued Mrs. Frattle, “that 
there have been repeated instances, in which persons, wounded 
through the lungs, have entirely recovered.” — “And so you think 
the wound is not mortal,” inquired Mrs. Broughton, anxiously. — 
“ Why, my dear, I am not a judge, you know,” said her visitor; 
“Dr. Floyer has expressed his fear that it is.” — “Mercy upon 
me, what then will become of my poor dear Frederick !” cried Mrs. 
Broughton. — “ Don’t take on so, my dear,” replied Mrs. Frattle 
“Dr. Floyer is as apt to be mistaken as any other physician. 
You know he gave his opinion, last April, that old Colonel Guzzler 
would not live a year ; and it is now the middle of May, and the 
colonel is still alive, though he had a terrible paroxysm of gout in 
the stomach, last Friday. Physicians ought to be very guarded in 
pronouncing these opinions ; for, when they prove erroneous, they 
are apt to produce a great deal of confusion L\ our domestic arrange* 
ments, you know, my dear.” 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


255 


“ Ah, my dear friend,” said Mrs. Broughton, after a short pause, 
“I am terribly afraid, that Mr. Broughton will be prevailed on to 
join the temperance society, and try to induce Frederick to do the 
same thing. What a sad effect it would have upon our rank in life! 
I should be ashamed to show’ my head, after that. My husband has 
long thought very favorably of this outlandish society. Good cld 
parson Smith, who is a kind of puzzlepot, you know, has more than 
half converted Mr. Broughton, already, and I am afraid this unlucky 
affair will bring him completely over. Dr. Smith is really getting 
troublesome, my dear Mrs. Frattle. He is continually sponging my 
good husband out of his money, for Bible societies and missionary 
societies. Only think- of it, Mr. Broughton went out the other day 
to purchase me some splendid porcelain vases, and came back with- 
out having bought them : and told me he really could not afford it, 
for parson Smith had met him on the way, and prevailed on him to 
give him a couple of hundred dollars to convert some wild heathens- 
in Athens, or some such place, in the East Indies. What a foolish 
waste of money ! But all this I can bear tolerably well, only let me 
be spared the mortification of seeing the name of Broughton among 
a parcel of poor, ignorant, vulgar people, who compose the temper- 
ance society. I believe it w’ould be the death of me, indeed I do, 
Mrs. Frattle. I have no doubt the thing is well enough for the vul- 
gar, and I was pleased to hear so sensible a man as Dr. Farrago 
say the very same thing, in Mr. Broughton’s hearing. Then, my 
dear friend, what a humiliating thing it is to pledge one’s self. It 
looks as though we had such a poor opinion of ourselves.” — 
“ Ay, my dear,” replied Mrs. Frattle, “you have a just view of 
the matter. They tell us that our example is needed, and some of 
these fanatical people have gone so far as to Say, that we should 
give up our wine, to induce vulgar folks to give up their rum. How 
very ridiculous I My views are just these, my dear ; ‘/s it not impos- 
sible that any drunkard, awakened to a sense of his whole danger, of 
the poverty, the disease, and the disgrace he ivas bringing upon himself 
and his family, could, for a moment, suspend his decision upon the 
question, whether another man would give up drinking wine? The 
very supposition is absurd on the face of it. Who, that has a sense 
of virtue, would look round for a price for which to practise it? 
What has my virtue to gain or lose from all else in the whole universe ? 
By what tenure can I hold it, but by the still small voice within me, 
which is mere than the echo of that, which speaks from Heaven?' 

“ It is reaty a treat to hear you, dea.r madam Frattle,” said Mrs. 
Broughton, “ you talk so precisely like a book. Your idea of the 
echo is singularly beautiful ; and your argument is perfectly unau- 


256 


WELL E^rOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


swerable ; for everybody knows that all the drunkards in the land are 
awakened now, by the exertions of the temperance society. These 
drunkards, now they are all awakened so thoroughly, would spurn, I 
should think, to be actuated by any but the highest and holiest 
motives. It is much the same thing as it is with children : if w^e 
only lay down good precepts, example is quite unnecessary, of 
course. These drunkards should rely upon their moral power ; the 
still small voice is quite enough for them ; and, if it is not, it is their 
own fault, to be sure.” — “You are perfectly right, my dear,” 
said her visitor ; “ this practice of signing pledges is highly censur- 
able ; it is a trap, my dear, a terrible trap for the conscience. It 
destroys one’s individuality ; it is a soecies of bondage. Our old 
friend. Noodle, the distiller, is not a Solomon you know, but he, 
now and then, says a clever thing, I assure you. He was at a 
temperance meeting not long ago, and, when the pledge was handed 
round, he went about very quietly among the congregation, whis- 
pering to the people, to be very careful how they signed away their 

liberties.” / 

The door-bell rang ; Mrs. Gale announced the arrival of Dr. 
Farrago ; and madam Frattle took her leave. Mrs. Broughton 
repaired to her son’s chamber ; she there found her husband, who 
had returned a few moments before from Mrs. Collingwood’s 
She had no time for inquiries, before Dr. Farrago entered the apart- 
ment. — “Good morning, madam, good morning, Mr. Broughton; 
how is he, to-day 1” proceeding to feel the young gentleman’s pulse. 

— “He appears not to know me, sir,” replied Mr. Broughton, 
with evident emotion, “ and I find him apparently in a high fever.” 

■ — “Bless me,” cried the doctor, “this is not as I anticipated. 
We must attend to. this, without delay. Pen, ink, and paper, 
madam, if you please, and I will write a prescription ; or I can do it 
in the parlor.” The doctor followed Mrs. Broughton to the parlor, 
M^here they found the Rev. Dr. Smith. They were soon joined by 
Mr. Broughton. The good parson took him by the hand with an 
expression of the greatest benevolence, but without uttering a word. 
Mr. Broughton turned towards ^he window to conceal his agitation. 

— “Pray, doctor, how is young Mr. Broughton, this morning'?” 
inquired the clergyman. — “At your service, in one moment, sir,” 
replied the doctor, folding up his prescription : — “ to be sent for, and 
administered immediately, madam,” addressing Mrs. Broughton. 
“Why, sir,” continued he, turning to the clerg 5 mian, “the young 
gentleman has taken a little too much wine. I relied, strongly, when 
I was first called, upon the prophylactic energies of combination; 
but I have reason to fear that he has taken into his stomach some- 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


257 


thing beside the pure juice. There is at present a considerable 
excitement of the sanguineous function.” — “You think he has a 
fever, doctor?” said the clergyman. — “I say not so,” replied the 
doctor; “there are, indubitably, symptoms of pyrexia present, but 
you are aware, sir, as you were once a member of our profession, 
long enough at least, to comprehend its perplexities, you are aware, 
sir, that the theories have been very various : there is that of the 
Greek schools, founded on the doctrine of a concoction, and critical 
evacuation of morbific matter ; then there is that of Boerhaave, sup- 
ported by the theory of a peculiar viscosity or lentor of the blood ; 
next comes that of Stahl, Hoffman, and Cullen, founded on the 
doctrine of a spasm on the extremities of the solidum vivum ; then 
we have that of Brown and Darwin, supported by the doctrine of 
accumulated and exhausted excitability, or sensorial power ; in 

addition to these, we have the opinions of ” “ Dr. Farrago,” 

said the clerg)rman, “ I did not intend to trespass upon your valu- 
able time ; I only wish to inquire if the patient is dangerously ill.” 
— “ Pshaw ! my dear sir,” replied the doctor, taking an enormous 
pinch of snuff, “ the young gentleman has been engaged in a frolic, 
taken a little too much wine, nothing more. He ’ll be out in a day 
or two, sir. I examined his breath, with great care ; no brandy, no 
gin, no whiskey, nothing of the sort ; wine, sir, nothing but wine. 
Wine is a wholesome, gentlemanly beverage ; no poison in wine, 
easily digested, and subserves the great purposes of alimentation and 
nutrition. No evil consequences ars'to be expected from wine.” — 
“ Doctor Farrago,” said the clergyman, “have you not heard of 
the affray which took place last night?” — “ Not a lisp of it, sir, I 
assure you,” replied the doctor. — “This unhappy young man,” 
continued the clergyman, “ under the inffuence of wine, stabbed his 
cousin, George Collingwood, through the lungs.” — “ Shocking, to 
be sure,” cried the doctor, “ bad enough, bad enough, never heard a 
word of it ; not a mortal wound, I hope.” — “ Dr. Floyer,” replied 
the clergyman, “ upon the first examination, last night, believed it 
to be mortal ; but Mr. Broughton and myself have had the happi- 
ness to learn from him, this morning, that there is a fair prospect of 
young Collingwood’s recovery.” — “ Happy to hear it,” cried the 
doctor, “very happy, — narrow escape, — a miss is as good as a 
mile, — might have been rather a disagreeable business.” — “ A 
very disagreeable business,” rejoined the clergyman, with a signifi- 
cant and solemn expression. “ The kind providence of an all-mer- 
ciful Goo has spared an amiable young man, to be still, I trust, for 
many years, as he has been, since he came to manhood, the support 
(it 9 u ;dowed mother : and the same protecting power has preserved 
on I. 22 * 


258 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


the son of our worthy friends here, from the gallows ! A. very 
disagreeable business, to be sure ! All this, but for God’s special 
favor, would have been the effect of drinking wine, from which you 
say no evil consequences are to be expected. Had the point of the 
deadly weapon varied in its direction the tithe of a hair, I fear,” 
continued the clergyman, dryly, “ the prophylactic energies of com- 
bination, upon which you rely, would not have saved these two 
unhappy families from unspeakable distress.” — “ You mistake my 
meaning, sir, altogether,” replied the doctor. — “Not at all, I 
apprehend, Dr. Farrago,” rejoined his opponent ; “ you say, that 
no evil consequences are to be expected from wine, and that you 
rely upon the prophylactic energies of combination, whereby the 
virulence of the alcohol is supposed to be neutralized. Now, it 
seems, that the evils of drinking wine are twofold, — those, which 
affect the health and happiness of the drinker, and those, which 
affect the safety of other persons, who may fall under the wine- 
drinker’s displeasure, during the paroxysm of drunkenness. The 
energies of combination seem not to he of much avail in furnishing 
additional security from the wine-drunkard’s wrath.” — “ This is a 
very interesting topic,” said the doctor, looking at his watch ; “I 
should be happy, nay, delighted, to discuss it with you. Dr. Smith, 
if I had time, but my hour draws nigh for a consultation with Dr 
Floyer, on old Col. Guzzler’s case, which is exceedingly perplexing, 
and will occupy us more than an hour.” — “ Dr. Farrago,” said th i 
clergyman, “ I can save you the trouble of an unnecessary visit 
Dr. Floyer informed me, at Mrs. Oollingwood’s, this morning, that 
Col. Guzzler died suddenly, just before day, of gout in the stomach.” 

— “ Is it possible !” said the doctor ; “ why, sir, he dined out, only 
two days since, with the Terrapin Society, and drank his bottle of 
Madeira, as cheerily as ever.” — “The prophylactic energies of 
combination do not appear to have saved the old colonel from the 
horrors of the gout, nor from death itself. Dr. Farrago.” — “ Hem, 

— why, no sir, no sir, — but there’s another side to that story,” 
replied the doctor. “Between ourselves, the old colonel was not 
a first-rate judge of wine. He had no small amount of poor stuff in 
his cellar. Ay, sir, had he confined himself to the pure juice, it 
would have been otherwise. The pure juice never hurt anybody. 
I have my suspicions, that our young friend here has been drink- 
ing soma vile compounds, at the hotel ; cannot believe the pure juice 
would produce such ill effects.” — “ Ah, my dear sir,” replied the 
clergyman, “ it is high time the public mind should be disabused of 
a great amount of error, in relation to the properties of this pure 
juice, which you consider so entirely innoxious. Dr. Farrago, you 


WELL ENOUdfl FOR THE VULGAR. 


269 


of course agree, that the beverage employed by Noah, when he 
began to be an husbandman, and planted a vineyard, so many hun- 
Ireds of years before distilled alcohol was known, was the pure juice. 
Yet the prophylactic energies availed him not ; they averted not the 
consequence of drinking an intoxicating liquor ; they appear to have 
had no power, in preventing the first quarrel after the flood, nor in 
averting the curse which fell upon Canaan. These energies of 
combination^ do not seem to have had the slightest influence in quell- 
ing those horrible disorders, which sprang up in the family of Lot, 
w '.en he became drunk with wine. These neutralizing energies 
sa /^ed not the inebriated Belshazzar, and his drunken lords, from 
rushing on their fate, when they flung insult against the majesty of 
heaven. Nor did they preserve the primitive Christians from being 
drunken around the table of their Lord.” — “ Very true, all very true, 
sir, very true, indeed,” cried the doctor ; “ but we refer, you know, 
to the prophylactic energies of combination, in regard to the physi- 
cal effects of pure wine upon the drinker himself.” — “I had always 
supposed, sir,” said the clergyman, “ that drunkenness, and its con- 
sequences, were among those physical effects. But if you refer to 
the supposed effects of these energies of combination, in relation to 
bodily health, do we not all know, that the gout is, proverbially, the 
wine-drinker’s portion ? That dyspepsia, and several other grievous 
diseases, are produced by the use of wine, and frequently, when 
otherwise produced, exacerbated thereby, is not to be denied.” — 
“ This may be true, sir, now and then,” replied the doctor. — “Nay, 
my dear sir,” rejoined the clergyman, “ it is very frequently true.” 
— “But, my good sir,” resumed the doctor, “what are the very 
worst effects of wine, under any circumstances, compared with the 
effects of alcohol?’’ — “And pray, sir,” inquired the clergyman, 
“ do you question the existence of alcohol in wine?” — “ Nothing 
but the elements,” replied the doctor, “ nothing but the elements of 
alcohol, sir, I assure you. I insist on the distinction, I insist upon 
it, sir.” — “Dr. Farrago,” said the clergyman, “it is needless to 
argue about that, which is definitively settled. The chemists, 
Rouelle and Fabbroni, supposed that alcohol was the product of 
distillation, and not the educt, and that the eleraente of alcohol, and 
not formed alcohol, existed in simply fermented liquors. This sup- 
position has been abundantly disproved. If it were correct, alcohol 
could not be drawn from fermented liquors, without raising the tem- 
perature to the point necessary for distillation. But Mr. Brande has 
separated the alcohol from all pure wines,, by the aid of chemical 
agents, without any distillation whatever, and without raising the 
temperature of the vinous liquor , and so, doctor can you and I. 


2€0 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VLLGAR. 


Now, if this alcohol will make men drank, and, if men, thus made 
drunk, will commit every variety of crime, it seems to me a very 
unprofitable employment of talent and time, to draw distinctions, as 
fine as gossamer, where no real difference exists, between the alco- 
hol in wine, and the very same alcohol, separated from that wine, 
either by distillation, or any other chemical process. It is a remark- 
able fact, that, when the Almighty denounced drunkenness, against 
all the inhabitants of Jerusalem, as a national curse, he bade the 
prophet prefigure the great calamity, by telling them that every bottle 
should be filled with wine ; the pure juice, doctor, containing no 
other alcohol, than that produced by its own fermentation.” — “ A 
great deal in what you say, sir, no doubt ; very plausible, very 
plausible, indeed,” cried the doctor, rising quickly, and looking at 
his watch ; “I will step up, madam, and look at the patient a mo- 
ment before I go. Good morning, Mr. Broughton, good morning. 
Dr. Smith.” 

Frederick Broughton was confined to his chamber for several 
months. His debauch terminated in a brain fever, from which his 
recovery was, for some time, exceedingly doubtful. At length, by 
the aid of a vigorous constitution, he escaped from the very jaws of 
death, and the hands of Dr. Farrago. Young Collingwood’s re- 
covery was more rapid. The world, as usual, sat in judgment upon 
the affray between these young gentlemen, and the decision was 
extremely unfavorable to Broughton. Even his military associates 
began to shrink from his society. Major Bentley, soon after the 
general’s recovery, sent in his resignation, and General Broughton 
began to realize the practical effects of his intemperate career. 

The prohibition against wine and games of chance is contained in 
the same passage of the Koran. We are instructed by Sale, in his 
preliminary discourse, that the word wine, as employed in the Ko- 
ran, is intended to comprehend every kind of intoxicating liquor.* 
There would have been little wisdom in this prohibition of the false 
prophet of Mecca, had it been limited to one instrument of intoxica- 
tion, or to anj particular game of chance, leaving his followers at 
liberty to indulge themselves in drunkenness and gambling, in a 
variety of unforbidden forms. It is very manifest, therefore, that 
the professors of temperance, who have pledged themselves to 
abstain from ardent spirit alone, have by no means attained to the 
wisdom of the prophet. 

The career of the unfortunate young gentleman, who is the sub- 
ject of the present narrative, presents a forcible illustration of Ma- 


* Sale’s Preliminary Discourse, sec. v. 


ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


26 j 

Irtnot'e icily, st;..: »•( ihe wisdom of a comprehensive pledge, 
Wine is ahiuidaally s u rricient for the production of all drunkenness; 
and, when the hahii of intemperance is effectually formed, it is not 
likely to he corrected , by the most rigid abstinence from that identi- 
cal beverage, by whose employment it was first engendered. 

The elder Mr. Broughton’s views, in relation to the innocency 
of wine, as a customary beverage, had undergone an important 
change. He had, for some time, halted between two opinions. 
The sound reasoning of Dr. Smith at one moment almost persuaded 
him to abandon his indulgence ; but the long-fostered appetite for a 
single glass of his pure old wine, — the presence of a visitor, before 
whom he was not quite prepared to avow and defend the conclusions 
of his own mind, — the unutterable expressions of Mrs. Broughton, 
which seemed silently to say, — not a syllable of temperance, — it 
is well enough for the vulgar, — all these considerations prevailed, 
and he commonly drowned his feeble resolutions in the social glass. 
In short, the dictates of his better judgment were less efficacious 
than the influence of his better half. His recent domestic trial, 
however, had turned the scale ; and, if any additional motive were 
necessary to confirm him in his good resolution, it was abundantly 
supplied by a severe paroxysm of the gout, which, even the pro- 
phylactic energies of the costliest and purest old Madeira had been 
utterly insufficient to prevent. 

Shortly after the recovery of Frederick Broughton, he gave his 
father a solemn promise, that he would abstain entirely from wine ; 
upon which occasion, his mother remarked, that his word was as 
good as his bond ; such, indeed, had already become a generally 
received opinion. Frederick Broughton kept his word ; from that 
time, he turned from all wine with loathing and disgust. 

At the expiration of a fortnight from the period of his return to 
his ordinary pursuits, and to the society of such of his former asso- 
ciates, as still adhered to him, he was brought home in a hackney ^ 
coach, superlatively drunk, a harmless and helpless mass. It would 
be needless to describe an additional fit of hysterics, which befell 
his incomparable mother, or the terrible exacerbation of his father’s 
gout, which followed, as a natural consequence of this event. The 
young gentleman had made a very valuable discovery, and was 
carrying his theories into successful operation. His prompt acqui- 
escence, when his father demanded a promise for the abandonment 
of wine, arose, in no small degree, from his growing experience 
of its disagreeable, acescent effects upon his stomach. He was 
delighted, beyond measure, to perceive the stimulating power, pos- 
sessed by a much smaller quantity of brandy, without that unpleas- 


262 


WETX ENOUGH FOR THE VUI.QAR, 


ant disturbance of a debilitated stomach, produced by the tartaric 
acid in wine. A fatal and ruinous relish for strong dr. nk had become 
a part of his second nature. The opinion of his jiarents that his 
only danger was from the employment of a gentlemanly beverage, 
and that his appetite was too refined to resort, for its gratification, 
to vulgar inebriants, proved, and will almost universally prove, 
where a vehement appetite for any kind of intoxicating liquor is 
already fixed, a miserable delusion. 

A consecutive series of tears and entreaties, reiterated promises 
of amendment, brief intervals of sobriety, returning fits of drunken- 
ness, and tears and entreaties, again had established the fact, that 
General Broughton was a common drunkard. The return of this 
wretched young man to his father’s dwelling, in a state of beastly 
intoxication, under the civil guardianship of a watchman, or some 
companion of his revels, less drunken than himself, had become a 
common-place affair. Such occurrences were no longer confined to 
those hours of darkness, which are commonly selected by all but 
inveterate drunkards, as the season of their loathsome debauchery. 

One morning, about eleven o’clock, Mrs. Broughton’s attention 
was arrested by a violent rapping at the front door. Its immediate 
repetition induced her, without waiting for the domestic, to ascer- 
tain the cause of this violent knocking. Upon opening the door, 
she instantly recognized the person of Ashur Jennison, her old dis- 
carded coachman. He was dressed in sailor’s apparel, and manifestly 
tipsy. — “ Why, Jennison,” said Mrs. Broughton, “is it youl” — 
“ No, it isn’t, my leddy,” he replied, doffing his tarpaulin ; “ I ’ra 
a bit water-logged, as your leddyship sees.” — “ Where have you 
been, Jennison,” continued Mrs. Broughton, “since you left us , 
and what is the occasion of this violent knocking 1” — “ I ’ve been 
round Cape Horn, my leddy, and got ashore this blessed m.orning, 
ye see, and have gotten a gill or so more than was convenient.” — 
“ Well, well, Jennison, you had better go your ways ; nothing will 
save you from destruction, unless you join the temperance society : 
it ’s well enough for the vulgar, and may possibly suit one, in your 
condition.” — “Bless your leddyship, one good turn deserves 
another ; I ’ve just been knocking at the rapper, to let my old master 
know, that the first acquaintance I met, after I got ashore, was the 
gin’ral. He was in a sad pickle, my leddy, drunk as a hum-top, 
and a parcel of landlubbers poking fun at the poor fellow. The 
temperance society may be well enough for the vulgar, as your led- 
dyship says, but I ’m afraid ’t would puzzle any such craft to over- 
haul such a genteel clipper as my young master. However, 1 
thought I ’d just be after letting you know the young gentleman 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


263 


was m trouble.” — Mrs. Broughton scarcely waited for the last 
words, but slammed the door in Jennison’s face, who put a quid of 
tobacco in his cheek, and turned upon his heel, muttering, as he 
left the door, — “ The same old painted fire-ship that she was five 
years ago.” 

Shortly after Mr. Broughton’s return at the dinner hour, hie 
attention was attracted to the window, by a mob of men and boys, 
who were approaching his dwelling. Two men were apparently 
sustaining the steps of a third, who was evidently too drunk to walk 
unaided, and who appeared to be an object of derision and thought- 
less mirth to the mob, who followed, hooting, and hissing, and occ2a- 
sionally assailing the miserable sot with stones and dirt. It waa 
just at that hour, when gentlemen usually return home from their 
places of business. Mr. Broughton’s residence was situated in a 
fashionable quarter of the city, and several of his acquaintances 
were passing at the very moment, when the two assistants, who 
appeared to be charitably disposed, were vainly attempting to silence 
the drunkard’s voice, and dragging him, evidently against his will, 
towards the door. His apparel was torn, and covered with the mud, 
in which he had wallowed ; his face had been severely cut against 
the curb-stone, on which he had fallen ; and his countenance was 
shockingly disfigured by the blood, which still continued to flow. 
The narcotic influence of the alcohol he had swallowed, had not yet 
perfected its work of stupefaction ; the poor drunkard’s brain teemed 
with the fantasy, that the individuals, who were humanely conduct- 
ing him to a place of safety, were his military aids, and that the 
rabble, in his rear, was no other than the identical brigade, which 
he formerly commanded ; and he appeared particularly anxious to 
form them into a hollow square, and return them his thanks for their 
soldierly behavior, and dismiss them for the day. 

At this moment, the door was opened by Mr. Broughton, and, 
scarcely had he presented himself before the assembly without, 
when his worthy partner was at his side. She had no sooner shut 
the door in poor Jennison’s face, and despatched the coachman and 
footman in pursuit of their young master, than she put on her bon- 
net, and betook herself forthwith to madam Frattle, for comfort and 
consolation. She had returned, just in season to contemplate this 
miserable spectacle. It was no difficult task for a father or a mother 
to discover, in the wretched being before them, covered with blood, 
tnd dirt, and rags, as he was, their only child, the object of their 
fond parental hopes. What a stay and staff was here, for that 
period, when life is on its lees, and even the notes of the happy 
grasshopper become a burden to the ear of a feeble, old man ! Mrs 


264 


WELL ENO 6H FOR THE VLTGAR. 


Broughton was immediately conveyed to her chamber, in a fit of 
hysterics, which so constantly, upon every occasion of unusual 
excitement, served for a discharge in full from all immediate respon- 
sibility. So readily, however, were all other considerations absorbed 
in those of caste and fashion, in the bosom of this poor lady, that 
her paramount concern, upon her recovery from the brief paroxysm, 
was an apprehension, that her husband might be persuaded, by the 
recent exhibition of drunkenness in their son, to become a member 
of the temperance society. Least of all did it occur, in the midst of 
her reflections, to associate this awful and disgusting consumma- 
tion, with her own early endeavors to teach her poor boy to take 
his glass like a gentleman ! 

The measure of callous indilference, which is here described, will 
appear to many entirely inconsistent with the maternal character, 
unless among scenes of extremely coarse and vulgar life. This, 
however, is a faithful transcript from the book of nature and of 
truth. In that class of society, which is equally removed from the 
follies and vices of the rich and the poor, the devotees of fashion, 
and the victims of ignorance and vulgarity, the lords of palaces, and 
the tenants of hovels, — the best and purest affections of the heart 
are most likely to be faithfully developed. In the midst of gayety 
and fashion, there are not more convenient opportunities for serious 
contemplation than among those scenes of coarse, common-place 
debauchery, which are peculiar to the lowest grades of society. 
Whatever be the subject matter of affliction, unless, alas, it be tbe 
loss of wealth, — whether it be the death or degradation of a parent, 
or a wife, or a child, the mourners must remember that they have 
no occasion to mourn as those without hope, so long as the courts 
of fashion are open for their reception again. In the estimation of 
the gay, it is an unpardonable evidence of weakness, to grieve 
Dey:)nd the fashionable term. The bereaved is summoned, by the 
voice of a giddy world, to repair his loss, from among those happy 
hundreds, who are more than half ready to soothe his sorrows. The 
heir is expected to find a balm of consolation for the death of an 
honored father, in the reffection, that the estate remains for his 
enjoyment. Those ten thousand occasions of joy, and merriment, 
and festivity, which belong to fashionable life, are so many absorb- 
ents, which take up the particles of sorrow, in the bosom of a dev- 
otee, with wonderful celerity. The vulgar sot becomes not more 
effectually drunk with his ordinary beverage, than the votary of 
fashion with its continual fascinations. A diminution of natural 
affection, an indifference to the calls of suffering and sorrow, an 
unwillingness to participate in the benevolent operations of the day, 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


265 


are common to them both ; and both are equally remarkable for 
their eagerness in pursuit of their respective means of intoxication. 
It furnishes, therefore, no legitimate occasion for surprise, that the 
son of fashionable parents, an unconquerable drunkard, lost to him- 
self, and to the world, should occupy his solitary apartment, under 
the paternal roof, while the glittering saloons beneath resound with 
all that unmeaning noise and nonsense which invariably proceed 
from promiscuous assembhes of fashionable people ; and while the 
parents of this unhappy victim are regaling their numerous guests, 
with that very thing, which made their son a drunkard. 

Let us return to our narrative. Mr. Broughton, by repeated 
occurrences of a similar nature, had become, in some measure, 
familiarized to these painful exhibitions. He caused his son to be 
conveyed to his chamber, and, closing the outer door, the rabble 
speedily dispersed from before his dwelling. After a slight repast, 
he walked the apartment in silence, for hours, reflecting upon his 
domestic misfortunes, and revolving a variety of expedients, which 
might afford a measure of relief. 

When Mrs. Broughton, who had quite recovered from her hys- 
terics, took her place at the tea-table, she was particularly struck 
with the composure apparent on the countenance of her husband. 
He had commonly, upon such occasions, evinced a greater degree 
of anxiety. She remarked upon the circumstance. — “I have 
long,” said he, in reply, “been doubtful, in regard to the course, 
which it is my duty to pursue, in relation to our unhappy child. ! 
have given this painful subject my serious consideration, for the last 
two hours, and my resolution is fixed. Distressing, as the alterna- 
tive may prove, Frederick shall either go to the house of correction, 

or sign ” “Lord have mercy upon us, Mr. Broughton,” 

cried his partner, dropping the tea-pot from her hand, “ what do 
you mean? sign the pledge of the temperance society! dear me, 
that ever a Broughton should do that !” — “I mean nothing of the 
sort,” said Mr. Broughton, “ and if you will listen, I will pro(;eed. 
He shall sign the shipping paper of a whaling vessel, that is just 
ready for sea.” — “ Dear me,” cried Mrs Broughton, “how you 
frightened me. I was in the twitters, for a moment, for fear you 
meant he should join that vulgar society.” 

Mrs. Broughton had long been persuaded, that her pride wsa 
likely to be continually humbled, by the misconduct of her son. 
Beyond the matter of a few animal tears, shed in advance, at 'ne 
thought of a separation, her maternal tenderness was thoroughly 
exhausted. Her affections were riveted elsewhere. The gay world 
23 - 


VOL. I. 


266 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


was enough for her; and she readily acquiesced in the determina- 
tion of her husband. 

The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Broughton entered the 
apartment of his son. He had already dressed himself, and was 
sitting upon his bed. His whole countenance and manner were 
those of a drunkard, after a severe debauch. He raised his eyes 
upon his father’s, but was unable to encounter their unusual expres- 
sion of calm severity. Mr. Broughton, upon all former occasions, 
and until his mind had settled down into a state of quiet decision, 
had either given vent to ebullitions of anger, or lamentations and 
tears. This profligate young man had become perfectly Tmiliarized 
to both, and had met them with apparent contrition, and promises of 
amendment. 

“Frederick,” said Mr. Broughton, after a solemn pause, “1 
have suffered more on your account than I think I ever can suffer 
again. I believe I have shed the last tears I shall ever shed on 
your account, unless I should hear of your death, or your refor- 
mation. You are now a notorious drunkard, and I am resolved no 
longer to endure the disgrace, which you bring upon me daily. 
1 have formed my resolution. No promises, nor tears, nor entreaties 
shall induce me to change it. You shall go to the house of correc- 
tion, as a common drunkard, upon the complaint of your own father, 
— or you shall proceed, this day, on board a whaling ship, which 
will sail to-morrow. You are fit for no office, and must enter as a 
green hand, before the mast. You must now take your choice.” — 
>'rt'derick raised his eyes upon his father’s, once more, and he there 
re.^d a clear confirmation of his statement, that the decision was 
unciiangeable : — he lowered his eyes upon the floor, and, after a 
brief pause, expressed his willingness to go to sea. 

Arrangements were speedily made. The captain was made 
acquainted with the habits of this young man, and with the wishes 
uf his father. The vessel, in which he embarked, was a temper- 
ance ship. It is not necessary to detail the particular circumstances 
of his departure. The reader will, of course, suppose, that Mrs. 
Broughton had a fit of hysterics, though he will scarcely believe 
that she attended a crowded party that very evening ; such, how- 
ever, was the fact. Mr. Broughton took leave of his son without a 
tear, but with an assurance, that .should he thoroughly reform, he 
»* ouM take him to his arnis. vuti; of joy. 

The sUip. leaving beon towed by a sieamer to the Balize, soon 
got uiuisT 'vay, aitd .stood out to sea, wdth a favorable wind. Be- 
fore night, however, the wind came fresh ahead, and it became 
necessary to close haul. Poor Frederick, utterly ignrirant ot a 


WELL ENOUGH FOR THE VULGAR. 


267 


sailor’s duty, was knocked back and forth by the men, as they ran 
to and fro. At last, rather than appear utterly helpless, he laid 
hold of a rope ; but, instead of belaying it, in a proper mannci , he 
gave it a landsman’s round turn, or, as the tars call it, a cow-hitch, 
lie had scarcely taken his hand off the rope, before he felt a smart 
slap upon the shoulder, and a jack-tar bawled in his ear, — “ Avast, 
gin’ral, I ’ll show ye how to belay.” — Here, then, was an end cf 
his incognito, and he had no longer the satisfaction of believing that 
his humiliation was a secret of his own. But what was his sur- 
prise, when, looking round upon the speaker, he beheld the well- 
known features of Ashur Jennison, his father’s cast-off coachman, 
a companion of the same forecastle with himself, for a three years’ 
voyage ! 

We know nothing more of Frederick Broughton ; and, as death 
ensues for the want of breath, our narrative must close for the want 
of additional materials. Enough, however, has probably been pre- 
sented to the mind of every reflecting reader, to satisfy him that 
temperance societies are not only w'ell enough for the vulgar, 
but for the educated, the opulent, and the refined. 


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NANCY LE BARON 


Th« faithful deliaeation of reality and truth will sometimet produce a picture, wkica the boldaM 
weaver of romance would scarcely venture to indite, — if it were the wild creation of his fancy. In 
the preparation of the following narrative, the writer has carefully selected, from the mass of curious 
materius, which have been communicated to him, from authentic sources, such as were leasi likely 
to ofiend, on account of their apparent improliabiliiy. Certain incidents, which, of strict ri^ht, 
oelonijf to this painful account, have been sacrificed, upon the altar of decency and taste. Ifow- 
•yer interesting to the mere anatomist of drunkenness, they would undoubtedly shock the ssnsi- 
bility of tome, and stagger the confidence df others. — It may shrewdly be asked, however, if sny 
erj-'afagance be too gross or too fantastical, to form a legitimate result from such a cause 7 VVbsa 
nim, gin, brandy, whiskey, and other intoxicating liquors, are the well-known premises, who will 
pretend to set any limit to the conclusions? Dmnkennest is madness; and, when the mind 's 
Drought thus low, all, of course, is riot and misrule ; and one species or type of extravagance may 1 1 
as rationally expected to supervene, as another. 

As a body, no one of the learned professions has more reason to thank the Giver of every good an t 
perfect gift, for any precious blessing, than the professors of the healing art, for the temperance 
reform. Few men were more exposed to daily and hourly trial and temptation, m this respect, than 
medical men; particularly those, whose sphere of duty lay among the broadcast population of coun 
try towns. It is, indeed, matter for astonishment, that countnr physicians, some twenty or thirty 
years ago, were not more frequently intemperate men. Hard service, by night and by day, long 
rides, cold weather, abundance of liquor, ever in full view, and the fashion of the time*, all con 
spired to stupefy tne physician ; and fortunate was the sufferer, who received his attention, at an 
early hour of the day. It was hard and rare practice when the doctor gave physic, and tooi nothing 
in return, beside his fee. It was impossible to resist the good wife’s importunities, whether tho 
temptation consisted of the city lady’s glass or two of the choicest old Madeira, Areyi/ expressly /ot 
the sick, — or the poor country woman’s hot to'ddy, stirred up expressly for the dear doctor. Pride 
and jealousy had so thoroughly mingled with our ancient hospitality, in the rum department, at 
least, that the physician, who had partaken of tiie rich patient’s bonrte bouche, could not decentlv 
reject even the sicit beggar’s bottle. 


intelligent and tolera- 


It is eminently disagreeable 



bly well-informed person, in a well-filled stage-coach, during a long, 
dusty ride, of a summer’s day. Your companions will, somehow or 
other, discover the fact, that your intellectual cistern is more capa- 
cious than their own ; and each one, in his turn, will be sure, with 
a little turbid water from his contracted reservoir, in the shape of a 
searching interrogatory, “ to fetch your pump,^’ and keep you at it, 
from dawn till dark. 

We had been wholly exempted from this travelling abomination. 
Half a dozen better tonguesters, and more mannerly companions, 
have seldom passed the whole day together, within the walls of a 
stage-coach. If we had “ made up a party we should have done 
worse, heyond all doubt. We fell into conversation, almost as 
readily, as though we had been comrades from our cradles. e 
certainly were very agreeable to one another, for we disagret^d 
about nothing. We soon made the disf^^/oiy. that we entertained 
the same political opinions ; upon suiue iulusion to the subject of 
religion, it became equally apparent, that we were of one mind, in 
relation to the loathsome and heartless doctrines of irifidelity ; and, 
when we entered the dinmg-parlor, at the lialf-way house, a piompt 


▼OL. 1. 


23 * 


270 


NANCY LE BARON. 


and universal requirement, for the removal of the brandy-bottle from 
the table, established the fact, that we were, one and all, cold-water 
men. It was one of the shortest and pleasantest days of my exist- 
ence. 

The sun was now about to bathe in the ocean, after a hot day’s 
work. We had just reached the summit of a wearisome acclivity, 

and there lay before us the little village of , and the hills 

and the valleys beyond. We caught no glimpse of the ’'oisy river, 
but we knew, by the rushing sound at the bottom, among the iaik, 
tangled wood, that the wild Amonoosuck was hurrying downward, 
Mith its lately-gathered tribute of mountain waters. — We had 
become suddenly silent ; and, as I had borne something more, per- 
haps, than my share of the conversation, and entered as heartily, at 
least as any other, into the innocent pleasantry of the day, my co n- 
panions began to rally me upon the change. “ It is sad to part,” 
said I, “ from one’s friends, even after so brief an acquaintance.” 
This was a sufficient explanation for them ; but my heart had a 
reason of its own, which was no concern at all of theirs : — I was, 
at that moment, entering the little hamlet, where I was born, after 
an absence of fifteen years ! 

We now began to descend the hill, and the driver, whose whole 
soul was swallowed up in the desire of exhibiting the spirit of his 
horses, cracked forward with a velocity, that put an end to all 
thoughts, but those of our personal safety. We soon alighted, at the 
tavern door ; the horses were instantly shifted ; and I took leave of 
my companions, who went a stage further on their way. — In the 
dusk of the evening, I found it impossible to identify the landmarks 
of my youth. The old meeting-house, however, was not to be mis- 
taken ; and the tavern was the same, kept by Colonel Rumrill, twenty 
years ago. After looking at my accommodations for the night, and 
swallowing a potion of hohea, sweetened with brown sugar, and 
stirred up, if I am not mistaken, with a rummy spoon, which a 
round, red, little hostess provokingly hoped was “ 'perfectly agree- 
able;" I resolved to reconnoitre the tenants of the bar-room, and 
ascertain, if any of the wretched, old grasshoppers, who used to 
chirp and sip sling, in that very place, some twenty years ago, were 
Biiil upon their legs. Accordingly, carefully muffled up in my truv- 
ollhig deal:, with my hat drawn, over my eyes, I elbowed my way 
through the noisy -ihrong, and took my seat quietly in a corner. 
'I’he atmusphere was j.ciicctly saturated with the effluvia of rum 
and t()bac.t“r/. Fortunately I was sufficiently supplied wiih fresh air, 
through a broken pane or two in the tavern window. As the smoko 
cccasioually passed away, I caught a view, between iHe puffs, of 


WANCY LE BAflON. 


271 


the different individuals, who composed the several groups. Now 
and then, I discovered an old standard ; but I was greatly surprised 
K) behold so many faces, which were entirely new to me. The 
host himself was a stranger. He was a sedate-looking personage, 
and appeared to understand himself and his affairs exceedingly well ; 
and it was truly surprising to mark the quantity of toddy, and flip, 
and sling, and julep, and drams of all sorts, which he could prepare 
in a single evening. I particularly noticed, that he invariably drank 
off, and it appeared to me, unconsciously, all the heeltafs or sugared 
reliquia at the bottom, which were left by his customers ; and his 
countenance was, by no means, indicative of total abstinence. A 
miserable object, very gray and very ragged, edged his way througli 
the crowd towards the bar, and stood, in the attitude of one, who 
scarcely dares to give utterance to his wishes. — He turned his face 
towards the lamp ; — I knew him at once : it was old Enoch Run- 
let, who worked on my father's farm, till my parents died, when 
the farm (for my father died poor) passed into other hands. Enoch 
was a sad dog. He was the wag of the village ; and the villagers 
often got him garrulously drunk, for the sake of enjoying his 
humor. He was eminently useful on training days. On such 
occasions, he would commonly seat himself on the lee side of the 
pail of punch, for the sake, as he said, of the perfume. — At 
weddings and ordinations, he always contrived to be in attend- 
ance ; and no shark ever followed a slaver upon the high sea, 
more assiduously, than Enoch followed his vocation of mourner-in- 
general for the dead. Hundreds of times I have seen him enter the 
dead man’s apartment ; stroke down his hair upon his forehead ; 
walk up slowly to the coffin ; look down upon the corpse with a 
mournful shake of the head ; and then, turning to the table within 
a few feet of the receptacle of death, pour out and swallow a liberal 
glass of the very poison, which had too frequently demolished the 
defunct. — Enoch was evidently determined, with an air of mock 
humility, to attract the attention of the host. Every glass of spirit, 
that was consumed, seemed to increase the beggar’s importunity of 
manner. He could no longer be disregarded. — “ What are ycm 
here for. Runlet?” said the host, with rather a repulsive tone of 
voice. Enoch reached forward, and whispered in the taverner’# 
ear. “You’ve got no money,” said the host. “No, deacon,” 
said Enoch, “but I’m expecting a little, in a day or two.” — 
“ You won't get any rum here to-night,” said the deacon, “ so, the 
sooner you go about your business, the better.” — “Do, Deacon 
Mixer, let us have a gill,” said Enoch, with a winning and 
beseeching air. — “I won’t,” said the deacon. — “Half a gill 


272 


NANCY LE BAROH 


then,” continued the beggar. — “ I tell you I won’t,” replied tlw 
deacon, with increasing energy. — Enoch held on like a leech. 
“Dear Deacon Mixer,” said he, “just let us have a taste.” — 
“ Not a drop. Runlet,” answered the deacon, stamping his foot, 
and breaking his toddy-stick as he struck it, in his anger, against 
the bar. — “Well then,” cried Enoch, running his nose in the 
taverner’s face, “just let a poor fellow get a smell of your breath. 
Deacon Mi^er!” — This stroke of humor caused such peals of 
laughter, as made the old house shake to its very foundations. The 
deacon lost his temper, and threw a whole glass of toddy, which 
he had just compounded, with particular care, for Squire Shuttle, at 
the beggar’s head. Enoch avoided the compliment, with singular 
adroitness, and the squire himself, who w^as standing directly behind 
him, received the whole glass of toddy in his face and eyes. This 
circumstance, while it excited the squire’s anger, increased the 
uproar of this respectable assembly. The deacon made a hundred 
aw'kward apologies, and a fresh glass of toddy, which he presented 
in the most humble manner imaginable. This scene had scarcely 
passed, when old McLaughlin, the sexton, whom I well remembered 
in my youth, entered the room, and, putting a gallon jug upon the 
bar, exclaimed, in his well-knowm accent, “ Dacon Mixer, I has 
come, for the Communion woine.” — It was Saturday night. — Is 
it possible, thought I, that this man will have the heart or the har- 
dihood to officiate at the table of his Lord upon the morrow ! — I 
quitted the apartment, and retired, in disgust, to my chamber for 
the night. 

On the morrow, I attended the village church, and there, in the 
deacon’s seat, I beheld the very same toddy-making Pharisee, whose 
performances, upon the preceding evening, I have already recounted 
And, when the minister named his text — “What is man?” — 
truly, thought lohat is man! — I found myself surrounded by 
strangers. A new generation had sprung up, and there were very 
few, of whose features I had any recollection. — Chloe was yet 
alive. She sat in a corner of the gallery. She was an old scoffer, 
and I had never expected to see her in the house of God. She lived 
on the skirts of the village, and got her livelihood by selling cake 
and ale, and telling fortunes. When I w^as eighteen, a giddy, 
thoughtless boy, I was fool enough to lay out the better part ol my 
savings, in prophecies and predictions, which Chloe had ever ready 
for those, who would part with their money in return. Upon the 
faith of this old impostor, who, by inquiries of others, had dis- 
covered the secret aspirations of my boyish heart, I was induced 
lo make ny suit to the squire’s daughter, who speedily sent me 


xNANCY LE BARON. 


275 


away with a flea in my ear. — Through the influence of a religious 
companion of her youth, she was the pious daughter of infidel 
parents, though they were among the first people of the village, 
and owned the very best pew in the church. I was a poor plough- 
boy, whose parents had nothing to balance the account withal, but 
willing hands and honest hearts. The decided, but kind-hearted 
manner, in which she rejected my exceedingly awkward demon- 
strations, my very first overtures of love, were enough to settle the 
question of her excellent good sense, and my own inconipatable 
folly. — And yet I have never blamed myself severely, for this 
innocent mistake of my youth ; for, though there were many' vho 
wanted courage to acknowledge the fact, there were few of our 
village lads, who had not, at some time or other, fancied themselves 
in love with Nancy Le Baron. 

After the death of myf parents, having received a good school 
education, and being held down for life to the little hamlet, in which 
I was born, by no consideration of interest ; I determined to seek my 
fortune in the metropolis. By the assistance of a fellow-townsman, 
who had pursued a similar course, with remarkable success, I 
obtained a situation ; which became the stepping-stone to all my 
future good fortune. By unremitting activity and application, for 
fifteen years, I had become the master of a pretty property.'’'’ If 
the reader has any curiosity to ascertain the connection, between 
this portion of my history and the visit to my native village, it is but 
fair that he should be gratified. I had begun to put a few profitable 
interrogatories to my own heart : — In what way shall I employ 
»hese riches ? Am I not getting weary of this interminable accumu- 
lation ? I felt, at the age of thirty-five, that I had lived alone long 
enough ; and, if there were a person upon earth, to whom I desired 
10 say so, that person was Nancy Le Barcn. Ten years before, I 
had heard some rumors of misfortunes in her father’s family ; there 
was a mighty difference between the poor ploughboy, and the man 
of handsome estate ; Nancy might have become less fastidious 
withal ; and, perhaps, I might count, in some measure, upon the 
effect of that constancy, which had flourished for fifteen years, 
without even the poor solace of hope deferred. Such then con- 
f&3sedly was the main object of my visit. It was my intention, if 
Nincy Le Baron were unmarried still, to offer her, once more, the 
hand, which she had already rejected. 

I was very forcibly struck, by the change, which, in so' short a 
apace, had taken place among the inhabitants of the village. After 
I had taken my seat in the meeting-house, and kept my eyes steadily 
fixed upon the squire’s pew, for a quarter of an hour, I had the 


274 


NANC*/ IxE BARON. 


iuortia«rAtion, ai hat, to av€ it oivapieJ by atrange/s. I looked ki 
•^Mix T<M iNa./i<;y, in e\ery corner. 1 scarcely n«)ticed an individual 
of w^bom I should have been able to any information, in 

re^jard to an old standard, excepiiiij> Major Moody, the miller, 
whoso expression was always about as so ui, as a great portion of 
the meal, which he sold. On my return tw the tavern, I ventured to 
interrelate the landlady ; “ Pray,” said 1, is Squire Le Baron yet 
livingp’ — “ Le Baron,” said she, “1 have heard that name; we 
have lived here only a few years ; ths factory business has brought 
a great many new-comers to the village, who have taken the places 
of the old folks.” — “ How long have you resided here ?” I inquired. 
— “We have kept the tavern about seven years, sir, and have* had 
a good run of business. The deacon is very particular about his 
liquors, and gives general satisfaction, for he never waters his rum. 
He has it direct from Deacon Gooseberry’s distillery. It ’s a great 
pity, sir, that the whole business was not confined to deacons and 
church-members ; it would then be done upon honor. Sha’n’t I 
fetch you a little spirit before dinner, sir ? it ’s very cheering after a 
long sermon.” — “But, my good woman,” said I, “I have not 
been preaching.” — “ That ’s true, to be sure,” replied this talkative 
hostess, “ but I often say so to Parson Me Whistler, and he always 
takes it very kindly.” — At this moment, the good woman was 
called away ; and, taking my hat and coat, I walked forth into the 
village. I bent my course towards the squire’s mansion. It 
appeared not to have undergone any remarkable alteration. As I 
walked on the further side of the street, I observed several children 
looking forth from the windows. — Nancy is married ! thought I. 
Those are her children ! — I strolled forward, endeavoring to reconcile 
myself to a disappointment, which I had certainly gathered, before 
it was ripe, as men, of a certain temperament, are prone to take up 
trouble, at an exorbitant rate of interest. I had walked on, till I came 
to the village grave-yard. Almost unconsciously, I found myself 
within the melancholy pale. My recollections of many, who had 
gone entirely from my memory, were readily recalled by the simple 
memorials around me. According to the prevailing custom of man- 
kind, some twenty years ago, almost every adult, whose name 1 
noticed upon the head-stone, had been a moderate drinker in his 
day. A very large proportion had been incorrigible sots. What a 
motley group, thought I, in the great day of the resu*recticn, shall 
arise together from the drunkard’s grave ! 

While I was thus engaged, my attention was aroused by the 
footstep of a person, who had approached within a few feet of the 
place where I stood. — It was old Enoch Runlet, who had excited 


NANCY L£ BARON. 


275 


the deacon’s indignation, on the preceding evening, bv his importu- 
nity for grog. He was apparently sober, and his smooth chin and 
general appearance indicated some little regard for the outward 
observances, at least, of God’s holy day. He knew me at once. 
“ Why, Mr. Lawder,” said he, “ what, in the name o’ natur, has 
brought you here 1 I thought, as I was a going by, that it was so 
much like Isaac Lawder, that I must needs step in and see. We 
heard that you had got to be quite a fine body, and we never thought 
to see you in these parts again, among us poor folks, in the old 
village. If a body may be so bold, what in the world. Master Isaac, 
has sent you this way?” — I was perfectly aware, that nothiig 
ODuld surpass this fellow’s insatiable curiosity, unless it were the 
skilful exercise of that power of rapid combination, which enables a 
Yankee to reach the mark with the accuracy of a patent rifle. — 
“ You alw^ays was a leetle kind o’ melancholy. Master Isaac ; I ’ve 
seen ye walk in this here place afore, of a moonlight night, when 
you was a younker. I guess you haant come up here a speculating, 
arter lands or the like?” — “ No, Enoch, I have no such design,” 
I replied. — “I guess you ’ve made a sight o’ money already,’ 
continued he. — “ Why, as to that, Enoch,” said I, “ I have thr 
substance of Agur’s prayer, neither poverty nor riches. Pray, 
good Enoch, who occupy the old mansion-house, where Squire 
Le Baron used to live?” — “Why, I guess^’’’ replied Enoch, 
“ they ’re the same, what has occupied it for the last five years : 7 
guess you haant got a mortgage on it, have you?” — At that mo- 
ment, this inveterate guesser fell over one of the foot-stones, in the 
grave-yard, and the writhing of his features assured me, that he 
had bruised himself severely. — “I guess you have hurt your shin, 
Enoch,” said I. — ‘•^1 guess I have,” said he. — “ Well then,” I 
resumed, “ I hope you will leave off guessing ^ and give me a few 
direct answers to some very plain questions. I perceive, that you 
tumbled over Bill Tillson’s grave ; it is better so, than to tumble 
into it, for Bill was an awful drunkard.” — “I guess you ’re a cold- 
water man. Master Isaac,” said he. — “ Well, Enoch,” I replied, 
“ for once, you have guessed right, and I hope you will rest satis- 
fied. I wish you to inform me where Squire Le Baron now 
resides.” — “ Why, Master Isaac, did n’t you know, as how the 
squire had been on Deacon Gooseberry’s farm these six years, 
come next April ? did n’t you know that?” — “ On Deacon Goose- 
berry’s farm ? — Who is Deacon Gooseberry ?” — “ Why, Deacon 
G ) 05 eberry has been a distiller in this village, for twelve years, and 
this grave-yard is called the deacon's farm, and here, — step this 
*vaj, Master Isaac, a piece, — here is the squire’s head-stone.” — 


276 


NANCY LE BARON. 


“ Is it possible !” said I, as I read the “ Sacred to the memory ^ — 
“ "Was he intemperate at last?” I inquired. — “ Very, very,” said 
Enoch, with a ludicrously solemn expression upon his countenance, 
and a deacon ish shake of the head ; little suspecting that I had 
witnessed his own performance on the preceding evening ; and, like 
many drunkards, unapprized of the full extent of his own unenviable 
fame. “The squire used to be a temperate man, Enoch,” said I, 
“ in my father’s life-time.” — “ And long after. Master Isaac,” he 
replied. “ About seven years ago, he delivered a temperance 
address, in the next county, against ardent spirits ; but the temper- 
ance folks blamed him very much, for going to the tavern, in the 
evening, after the lecture, and calling for his bottle of wine. We 
poor folks, who take a little rum now and then, don’t see the wit 
o’ that. Master Isaac. I guess you take a little wine yourself, now 
and then.” — “ No, Enoch,” said I. — “A little ale then, or por- 
ter,” continued he. — “Not a drop of any intoxicating drink,” I 
replied : “I am a consistent cold-water man, and have no more 
belief, that intemperance will be entirely abolished, by the abandon- 
ment of ardent spirit, than that the vice of gambling would be 
rooted out, by the abolition of the game of all-fours. But pray tell 
me, Enoch, what has become of the squire’s family ?” — “ The old 
lady is gone,” he replied ; “ she took a little spirit herself, in a sly 
way. The old gentleman did pretty well, till he lost his property, 
and then he left off wine pretty much, and took to the other things. 
He was n’t used to it, ye see. It never hurts me, and I don’t think 
it ever will ; but it fixed the squire right off. It did n’t seem to agree 
with him.” — “What became of Miss , the squire’s daugh- 

ter?” — “Why, Master Isaac, you haTen’t forgot her name, I 
guess ; Miss Nancy, you mean. She was your old flame, you 
know: I guess you’ve got married afore this. Master Isaac.” — I 
fairly wished myself rid of the fellow ; but, putting the best face 
upon the matter, I observed, with an air of indifference, that I had 
seen some children at the mansion-house window, and that I had 
conjectured Nancy was married, and that those children might be 
hers. — “I guess they are n’t,” answered Enoch ; “ Master Isaac, 
I always thought, that you and the squire’s daughter would have 
made \ good match ; but Miss Nancy thought she could do better ; 
BO she went further and fared worse by a great chalk. It ’s about 
nine years since she was married ; and, for so good a young la(r>, 
and one, who was brought up so delicate, she has had a hard tiv.t on 
it. She married a Doctor Darroch, who soon lost the chief art of hi3 
business, and treated the poor creature rougWy enough. She 
three little childrjn, ai d they ’re as poor as snakes in winter. 


NANCY LE BARON. 


277 


fie cheated her, by a great show of religion. Maybe, Master Isaac, 
for the sake of old acquaintance, you ’d be willing to give ’em a lift,” 

— “ Poor Nancy,” said I, after a short pause. “ Good Enoch, tell 
me if this unprincipled brute, this Doctor Darroch, that you speak 
of, continues to use her unkindly?” — “ Ha, ha,” he replied, “ he 
hasn’t given her much trouble of late ; why the doctor ’s been two 
years at least upon the deacon’s farm here. He fell off his horse 
one winter night, and was found dead in a snow-drift, next morning. 
Some folks thought he died o’ the rum palsy, and others that he had 
swallowed some of his own physic by mistake ; but the general 
opinion seemed to be that he broke his neck. Nobody was soiiy 
for his death, though his wife, notwithstanding he used her like a 
brute, said it was her duty to remember, that he was the father of her 
poor little ones, and so she gave him a decent funeral, such as it was. 
’Twas melancholy enough, you may be sure, for there wasn’t a 
drop o’ liquor, from the time we went in to the time they lifted the 
body. Old Mcliaughlin, our sexton, said ’t was the driest corpse he 
ever buried, by all odds. It was so plain a case, that everybody 
rejoiced, because his poor wife was relieved from such a drinking 
tyrant. Rum, Master Isaac, you may depend upon it, has done a 
mortal sight o’ mischief in this town.” — “ But, Enoch,” said I, 
“ where do they live at present, and what means have they of sup- 
port?” — “Why,” said he, “you know where Long Pond is; 
they live in the old cottage, upon the skirt of the pine wood. The 
mother knits and sews ; and, now and then, gets a chance to wash 
and iron, when her strength will let her, though she ’s quite down 
of late ; and two of the children are old enough to pick berries in 
summer ; and, in one way and another, they make out to rub along.” 

— What a reverse ! thought I. The old squire and his lady were 
the nobility of the village ; their wealth alone was enough, some 
fifteen years ago, to give them rank and importance ; poor Nancy, 
preeminent in the little circle of the parish, for her sweetness of 
disposition and personal charms, was their only child. The parents 
have died, poor and degraded ; and their daughter lives, the widow 
of a worthless drunkard, encumbered with three starving children. 

— Nancy Le Baron reduced to such extremities as these! Win- 
ning her bread by the sweat of her brow ! It is impossible ! — “ Ne 
it is n’t,” cried Enoch, “ and that ’s not half the misery on ’t neither. 
Poor soul, she ’s had to run for life afore now, and hide her children 
in the v/ood, of a snapping cold night. Why, he used to flog her 
Pke a sack, and then drive her down cellar, and kick the children 
i -und the room, like so many footballs. She bore it, they s? y, like 
k saint, and never told of it for a long spell. Old Chloe, the fortune- 

von I. 24 


278 


NANCY LE BARON. 


teller that used to be, first brought it out. She was passing by the 
house one night, and heard her scream, and peeped in at the win- 
dow. Old Chloe was always as bold as a lion , you know, and she ’e 
about as strong as a three year old steer. You remember Bijah 
Larkin, Master Isaac ; — well, Bijah ’s called pretty smart, but she 
trimmed him like a sapplin. He got a running on her about telling 
his fortune, and raised her temper ; so says she, ‘ Bijah, I ’ll tell 
your fortune for you — you ’ll get a thrashing afore you ’re a hair 
grayer, if you don’t let me alone.’ Bijah made her a saucy answer, 
and she gave him a real drubbing. Folks haven’t left off, to this 
day, asking Bijah if old Chloe wasn’t a good prophetess. — Well, 
as I was a saying, the old creature pushed open the door. This 
devil’s bird of a doctor was hauling his poor wife about by the hair 
of her head, and the children were crying for their lives. He 
ordered the old negro woman out of the h' use. But the good 
creature's feelings drove her on. She flew at him like a tiger ; 
‘ Let her alone, you dirty rum-sucker,’ she cried. ‘ Many ’s the 
good meal of victuals I ’ve had in her father’s kitchen, and her old 
mother ’s been kind to me many a time, and I won’t see her abused 
by man or brute.’ So she caught him by the throat, and drove him 
up in a corner among a parcel of gallipots and bottles. She was a 
match for any sober man, and could whip a rigiment o’ drunkards 
afore breakfast, any day. A neighbor came in, and took away the 
wife and children for the night. The doctor was in a boiling rage, 
and threatened to bring old Chloe up afore the court, for a vagrant 
and a fortune-teller. The old woman never wanted a ready answer ; 
so she told him she was afraid of nothing but his physic, and that 
she would tell his fortune right off, without a fee : ‘ You ’ve sarved 
the devil,’ said she, ‘ in this world ; and, when you die, you ’ll go 
where they don’t rake up fire o’ nights.’ ” • — “ What an infamous 
villain !” said I, involuntarily raising my stick as I spoke, “ I wish 
I had him here.” — “ I ’m glad you haven’t,” said Enoch ; “ take 
my word for it. Master Isaac, the deacon’s farm ’s the very best place 
for him.” 

I inquired if this poor woman had no neighbors who were kind to 
her. “Oh yes,” replied Enoch, “as far as they are able, but 
we ’ve no rich folks in these parts. Old Chloe is the nearest neigh- 
bor, and^ like enough, the best friend into the bargain : her hut is n’t 
a gun-shat off froi*. their cottage.” — I thanked Enoch for the infor- 
mation he had afforded me, and was about giving him a trifle ; — 
my hand was already in my pocket — the coin was between my 
fingers. But, thought I, why should I put my silver on the high- 
way to Doacon Mixer’s till 1 If I wish to do this poor fellow a 


NANCY LE BARON. 


nervice, I may be sure, after my last night’s experience, that I am 
not likely to accomplish it, by affording him the means of drunken- 
ness. 1 was about to withdraw my empty hand, when a glance of 
my eye assured me, that I had already raised his expectations. I 
took the coin from my pocket. “ Enoch,” said I, “ I shall be happy 
to give you this trifle, if you will promise me, that you will not 
spend it in liquor.” — “ Master Isaac,” said he, with his eyes riv- 
eted upon the silver, “ I should despise the very thought of it ; why, 
I ’ve heerd two temperance lectures, and have pretty much given up 
that thing of late. I haven’t got the relish for it I used to have.” — 
“ Well, w'ell, Enoch,” said I, “ I shall probably pass a few days in 
the village, and, perhaps, we will talk of this matter again : remem- 
ber your promise.” — Drunkards are very commonly liars. Under 
the influence of liquor, their declarations are strongly tinctured with 
the spirit of extravagance and falsehood ; and when they become 
sober, it appears to them a more agreeable task, to maintain their 
statements, by accumulating falsehood upon falsehood, than to retract 
them ; because such retraction would most commonly involve the 
admission, that such statements were the extravagances of a drunken 
hour. In this manner, intemperate persons commence playing at 
fast and loose, a game of hazard, as it were, with truth and false- 
hood ; the pride of conscious veracity is speedily annihilated ; and, 
ere long, whether drunken or sober, the boundary lines of falsehood 
and truth are entirely obliterated, in the mind of an intemperate mar 

I returned to my inn, with some little misgiving, in regard to poor 
Enoch’s powers of self-restraint, and the propriety of my own con- 
duct. How many shillings, thought I, have been given to save 
one’s own time ; — how many to avoid the beggar’s importunity ; 
— how many from a sort of hap-hazard benevolence, or to avoid the 
reputation of meanness ; — of all these, how many have contributed 
to the production of broken heads and broken hearts ! It is really 
surprising, how much sheer misery a misapplied shilling will occa- 
sionally purchase, for some poor family. He, who bestows his 
money upon every supplicant, without any guaranty for its useful 
employment, embarks in a lottery, where there are many more blanks 
than prizes. It would be no grateful task to harden the heart of 
nan, sufficiently obdurate already, against the cries of his fellow, in 
iistr#>ss ; but the practice of money-giving, in the street, to mendi- 
cants, whose distresses and necessities are unstudied and unknown, 
ia equally mischievous and absurd. It is equivalent to bandaging 
♦he eves of Charity, and sending her forth to play at blind-man’s- 
buff, among the worthy and the worthless of mankind. 

My tlioughts were soon recalled to the subject of Enoch’s narrac 


280 


NANCY LE BARON. 


tive, and the hard fortunes of Nancy Le Baron. I should certainly 
have paid a visit to old Chloe, that very evenii g, had I aot been 
prevented by a tremendous storm of wind and rain, whose violence 
was not sufficient, however, to prevent a dozen worthies or more of 
the village, from collecting in the bar-room of Deacon Mixer. I, 
by no means, approve of spending a Sabbath evening in the bar- 
room, even of a deacon ; but, upon the present occasion, my cuii- 
•^ity prevailed, and I resumed my former situation, muffled in my 
wTivelling cloak, as before. I soon perceived, that the deacon and 
nis guests were of the same opinion with the framers of the statute, 
mat God’s holy day goes down with the setting sun. No trace of 
Its solemnity appeared to remain. Drinking and smoking were the 
Jiimusements of the evening. Parson McWhistler and his lady took 
tea, as I discovered, with Mrs. Mixer, and the deacon’s time was 
divided, in an ecclesiastical ratio, between the minister and the 
ocople, nine tenths of it to his customers, and a tithe to his spiritual 
guide. The concerns of both worlds were strangely mingled, in the 
mind of this extraordinary man ; and, so far was he from appearing 
to perceive the slightest incongruity, between his office of deacon, 
and his calling, as rum-seller to the parish, that he really seemed to 
account his ministration in the bar-room, as sanctified, at least in the 
eyes of his fellow-men, and in liis own, by his holier vocation. 
During his short, occasional visitations to the apartment, where the 
Rev. Mr. McWhistler and his lady were taking tea, the affairs of 
the bar were managed by Moses, the deacon’s son, a sprightly lad 
of about fourteen years of age, who, I remarked, was quite as 
expert as his father, in taking off heeltaps. This interesting youth 
appeared to have some system in his business withal, for, whenever 
he put one lump of sugar into a glass of rum and water, he invari- 
ably put two into his own mouth. 

I had not been long in my position in the corner, when two men 
entered the apartment, who appeared to be immediately recognized, 
a8 personages of some importance. They were very wet, and one 
of them, who carried a pair of small seal-skin saddle-bags upon his 
arm, I soon ascertained to be the physician of the village. Room 
was immediately made for the new-comers, by the tenants in pocees- 
sion. — “ Let ’s help ye off with your great-coat. Dr. Lankin,” said 
a tall old man, with a wheezing voice. — “ Thank ye, Mr. Goslin,” 
replied the doctor. — “ Here’s a peg for your hat, doctor,” said 
another. — “ Obliged to ye, thank ye, thank ye, neighbor Hobba ; 
how ’s your wife 1 ” — “ Why, she keeps her head above water, and 
no more, doctor. I was a telling Mr. Bellows here, just afore yon 
come in, that I wanted nothing more to put down the wh'jk tern- 


NANCY LE BARON. 


281 


p prance society, than my old woman’s case. 1 know, for sartin, 
that spirit ’s the salvation on her. Nothing less than a pint a day 
keeps body and soul together. One day, last week, I jist put in 
about a gill o’ water to her Hollands, and, my soul, you never see 
how she fell away : she ’d ha’ gone off, as sure as a gun, if I had n’t 
gin her tother gill right away.” — “Don’t believe a word on’t,” 
said a fellow with a rough voice and a voluminous countena ice, as 
h ? rolled his ponderous person to and fro, after the manner >. f Dr. 
Johnson ; “ no faith in that, none at all.” — I was rejoiced to find 
an advocate for temperance in such an assembly as this. The whole 
air and manner of this individual, was inauspicious, to be sure. I 
had seldom met with a countenance more decidedly alcoholic ; but 
I conjectured that he might have recently reformed. — “ Why, 
Bellows,” cried old Goslin, who could scarcely articulate, for the 
asthma, “ ’kase you don’t like spirit, you’ve no faith in it. I 
know as how it ’s saved me. My asthma ’s dreadfully helped by 
three or four spunfuls o’ old rum, when nothing else will do me a 
mite o’ good.” —“Don’t believe it,” said Bellows, “ no more than 
I believe my old anvil’s made o’ cheese curd.” — At this moment 
the parlor door was opened, and the deacon, who had been absent a 
few moments, returned ; he held the door, for an instant, in his hand : 
I heard the strong voice of Parson Me Whistler, — “ What, dear 
Deacon Mixer, what is faith without works!” — “ Sure enough,’’ 
said the deacon, as he shut the door, and stepped back into his bar. 
He soon perceived the new-comers, and said, in a half whisper, to 
his SCI* — “ Quick, Mosy, a pitcher of hot water ; the doctor always 
takes it but.” — 

Tiie iuJividual, who came in wuth Dr. Lankin, had thrown off his 
coat, aud, having lighted a cigar, stretched himself at length on a 
settle. He was a short, round man, in rusty black; and, as he lay 
upon his back, sending columns of smoke directly upward, with 
regular intermissions, he somewhat resembled a small locomotive 
engine. He uttered not a word ; but, during the controversy, in 
which Hobbs, Bellows, and Goslin had been engaged, each speaker 
was cheered, at the conclusion .d fan remarks, by the short, round 
man in black, with ha, ha, ha, or ne, he, he, or ho, ho, ho ; and yet, 
such an excellent management of his voice had he, that it was 
utterly impossible to ascertain, to which side of the argument he 
inclined. 

Dr. Lankin sat in the midst of this assembly, masticating tobacco, 
twirling his thumbs, and with an unvarying suide upon his features. 
— Hobbs was not disposed to relinquish the coiU^st. — “ Deacon,” 
said he, “ I ’ll take a tumbler of your gin sling, if >ou please.” — 

VOL. I. 24 * 


282 


NANGY LE BARON. 


“ Directly, sir,” said the deacon ; “ Mosy, reach me the Hollan i«, 

— When Hobbs had received the glass from the deacjon’s hand, 
“ Here ’s your good health, Mr. Bellows,” said he, and turned off 
the liquor with a triumphant air, as though he had overwhelmed 
his antagonist with an unanswerable argument. — “ Ho, ho, ho,” 
cried the round man in black. — “ You ’ve swallowed liquid fire,” 
said Bellows, “ and it ’ll do ye jest about as much good as live sea- 
coal out o’ my furnace.” — “ Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the round mui. 

— “I ’ve thought a good deal over this here business o’ drinking 

spirit,” said an elderly person, who sat with his hands clasped over 
a very high stomach, and whose utterance appeared to be frequently 
checked by a very troublesome flatulency. — “And what’s your 
opinion about it. Farmer Salsify?” inquired Hobbs. — “Why, no 
offence to anybody, but I think it ’s mor morally wrong.” 

— “ He, he, ho, ho,” said the little round man. — Well, thought I, 
here are two friends of temperance at least, and where I had but lit- 
tle expectation of finding any. — “ How long is it, neighbor Salsify, 
since you joined the Temperance Society? ’ inquired Goslin. — 
“ Wliy, don’t you know ?” replied Salsify. “ ’T was jest arter you 
fell off your mare, and broke your leg, town-meeting arternoon, 
four years ago.” — “Ha, ha, ha,” said the round man in black, in 
which he was joined by several of the company, while Goslin was 
seized with a violent fit of wheezing. — “You may say jest what 
you please,” continued Salsify, “I believe ardent spirit’s rank 

poison. There ’s no wholesomer drink than good ripe cider. 

Deacon, I’ll thank, I ’ll thank ye for a mug.” — “He, 

he, he,” said the little man. — “ Vile trash,” cried Bellows, “ no 
nourishment — full o’ windy colic — I ’d stand a luAvsuit afore I ’d 
touch a drop on ’t. Deacon, I ’ll task a mug o’ your good draught 
porter, or, if you ’re out, a mug o’ strong beer will do : there ’s 
some substance in that.” — “Ha, ha, ha,” said the little man. — 
It is well, thought I, that the cause of genuine temperance is the 
cause of God, for its fate would be a sad one, in the hands of such 
deplorable defenders as these. 

It was understood by the that Parson McWhistler was 

in the house, and it was resoi.-.c by Hobbs, Bellows, and Goslin, 
to consult him on the cubject. Moses, having been sufficiently 
instructed, was commissioned to give their respects to the minister, 
and ask his opinion of the temperance cause. Moses returned in 
about twenty minutes, with a response from the parish oracle, sub- 
stantially as follows : “ Parson McWhistler says, as how he thinks 
very well on it. He says he thinks it wrong to drink ardent spirit, 
and beer, and cider, for they ’s very apt to intosticate, but if folks 


NANCY LE BARON. 


283 


will drink, that ’s tlieii business, and not the person’s what sells it.” 
— ” Moses,” said Dr. Lankin, “ did he sa) anything of winel” — 
“ No, sir,” replied Moses, “ he ’s a drinkiig some now with my 
mother.” — “Ho, ho, ho. ho, ho,” said the round man, and the 
room shook with laughter. The little round man now arose ani 
put on his coat ; and, as he turned his face to the light, I recog- 
nized the features of Squire Shuttle, whose toddy had been admin- 
istered rather unceremoniously, on the preceding evening. The 
doctor took his flip, and the squire his toddy ; one after another :he 
deacon’s customers departed ; and, as I rose to leave the room, he 
was engaged in emptying his till, and calculating the gains which 
he had gathered in exchange for his own soul. 

Three important personages, in every village, whose dealings 
respectively are with the souls, bodies, and estates of their fellow- 
townsmen, have the powar of exerting a prodigious influence, in 
relation to the temperance reform ; and, according to the measure 
of their favor or dislike of this mighty enterprise, it is frequently 
fated to succeed or to fail. The minister, the physician, and the law 
yer are the fuglars of the parish. Show me the village, in which 
the clergyman will not grant the use of his pulpit to a temperance 
lecturer j because the temperance cause is a “ secular matter — in 
which the doctor has refused to sign the pledge of the society, because 
it is “ a trap for his conscience — and in which the lawyer drinks 
toddy, and talks loudly of ^Hhe liberties of the people:"*^ — and 1 will 
show you a drunken and a worthless township. Parson McWhist- 
ler. Squire Shuttle, and Dr. Lankin, were gentlemen of a very dif- 
ferent order. Yet the cause of temperance appeared not to flourish 
here. Squire Shuttle and Dr. Lankin were never known to utter a 
syllable in opposition to the reformation : for there were some 
wealthy farmers and respectable mechanics, among whom their 
practice lay, and who were its decided friends. Yet they never 
gave it a good word in their lives, for it had been ascertained, upon 
some occasion, in a public meeting of the town, that there was a 
strong alcoholic majority, or, in the cant phraseology of the day, 
that the rum ones had it. There was a common bond of interest, 
between these village functionaries ; for the doctor bled and blis- 
tered in the lawyer’s family, and the lawyer collected the physi- 
cian’s demands, in the way of his prcfession. They agreed upon 
jkl important matters save ’one — the lawyer drank toddy and the 
doctor drank flip. The clergyman, however, had a(!quired the rep- 
utation of a devoted friend of the cause. He had lectured, himself, 
in opposition to ardent spirits, oeer, and cider, but he accounted it a 
very wicked thing to call that a poison, which our Saviour wrought 


284 


NANCY LE BARON. 


by the miracle at Cana. Some how or other, the parson’s habit of 
indulging in wine became, as I afterwards heard, a matter of noto- 
riety in the parish, and utterly destroyed his influence as an advo- 
cate of the temperance cause. 

Upon the following morning, after a slight repast at the inn, 1 
bent my steps in the direction of Long Pond. It was one of those 
delightful mornings, near the end of June, of which so much has 
been sung and said in every age. The storm of the preceding night 
had entirely passed away, and the bright beams of the sun were play- 
ing among the varnished leaves of the forest. — The measure of 
wretchedness, into which Enoch had represented this ill-fated young 
woman to have fallen, in consequence of her alliance with an intem- 
perate man, had appeared to me incredible. No small portion of it 
all I had ascribed to that disposition to deal in the marvellous, which 
is so common among those, who have no other avenue to a short 
lived aggrandizement. Enoch Runlet was one of those persons, 
who, however incompetent to draw the bow of Ulysses, can readily 
draw long bows of their own. — It is impossible, thought I, that 
Nancy Le Baron, by any weight of sorrows, can be reduced to such 
a state of dependence. And yet the name of the family was nearly 
extinct, at the period of my departure from the village. Her 
parents were solitary and unsocial in their habits ; and 1 found no 
little difficulty in recollecting any early associate or intimate friend, 
yet living, who would be likely to take a deep interest in the fate 
of poor Nancy. Though I had not seen her for fifteen years, the 
impression, such as she had made, and left upon my memory, 
remained, unabated of its power and freshness. Her jet-black hair 
and eyes were contrasted with one of the fairest complexions I ever 
beheld. The rose upon her cheek was not that universal tint, 
which speaks of health and many years ; but the concentrated, and 
almost hectical flush, which seems to say to the gentle spirit within — 
Thy light bark may glide securely down the smooth current of life, 
but it cannot live long upon its troubled waters. 

Occupied with such reflections as these, I had strolled, almost 
unconsciously, beyond the borders of the busy hamlet. The splash 
of a lomly sheldrake, as she rose from the water, roused me from 
my reverie, and I paused, for a moment, to gaze upon um little lake, 
which was now discernible through the intervals of the pine forest. 
I pretend not to analyze the matter, but I have never, after long 
absence, gazed upon the hills and valleys, with the same interes , 
as upon the lakes and rivers of my youth. It would be no easy task 
'jo describe the various emotions of pleasure and pain, with which 
1 now surveyed these glassy waters, in which I had so frequently 


NANCY LE BARON. 


2S5 


sported when a boy. How often had I guided my little shallop over 
xheir bosom, upon a summer holiday, having convertec a portion of 
my mother’s bed-linen into a temporary squai e-sail ! A thousand 
associations were gathering rapidly about me. My eye fastened 
itself upon the very rock, near which, at the age of ten, I cauglil 
my first pickerel ; an achievement, which gave me as mucl 
importance, at the time, in the estimation of my little compeers, 
as the victory of Austerlitz procured for Napoleon, in the eyes 
of all Europe. — The whirlpool, as we used to call it, was 
yvA visible. This was near the centre of the pond, and the 
spot was indicated, by the troubled surface of the waters. There 
poor Bob Carleton was drowned. If Bob was not a poet, our 
village parson was mistaken. There was an ancient oak in our 
village, of gigantic size, which grew near the common, and over- 
shadowed a part of it. It was the property of a private individual, 
who thought proper to cut it down for fuel. There was no little 
popular excitement upon the occasion ; and the conduct of the 
proprietor, who had been offered a very considerable sum of money 
to spare this favorite tree, was considered equally obstinate and sor- 
did. “ I am almost of Evelyn’s opinion,” said good Parson Riley, 
in the hearing of Bob Carleton, “ that, sooner or later, some evil will 
surely happen to those, who cut down ancient trees, without good 
provocation. It is enough. Master Robert, to excite the indigna- 
tion of your muse.” — Bob Carleton was absent from our sports 
for two or three days, when he produced his lines upon the fallen 
tree. Bob was sixteen, and Parson Riley said they would do credit 
to a man of thirty ; and Mr. Brin ley, the village blacksmith, who 
had a library of more than fifty volumes, asserted that these lines 
were nearly equal to Bloomfield. Poor Bob gave me a copy of 
these verses himself. 

THE MIGHTY FALLEN. , 

Mighty monarch ! peerless heart ! 

Gallant, o’er thy fellows, thou ! 

All majestic as thou art. 

Yet doomed, alas ! to bow ! 

No more to Ijrave the wintry north ! 

No more, in spring, to bourgeon forth! 

Thy giant form, by pigmies slain, 

Lies, as erst it fell ; for they, 

Who stripped thy glories, strive in vain 
To bear thy trunk away. 

I knew thy doom, and sighed to save 

Those verdant honors from the grave I 


286 


NANCY LE BARON. 


Sick at my heart, alone I sate, 

While, echoing far, the woodman’s blow, 
Across the vale, proclaimed thy fate, 

And laid thy beauty low. 

I marked those echoes, one by one, 

Until the ruthless deed was done ! 

I marked that fatal pause, and then 
That short, confused, and fearful cry, 
Which seemed the shout of victory, when 
The recreant turn to fly ; 

While those, who mark the mighty low, 
Shun the death-grapple of their foe. 

When, like Colossus, from thy throne, 
Cast down at last, and earth, and air. 

And ocean, caught thy dying groan, 

“ O, what a fall was there 1 ” 

Thy shivering trunk, thy crashing branclt 
Seemed some enormous avalanche ! 

Or like Missouri’s rapid tide. 

Just when the gathering torrents, first 
Spreading, like ocean waste and wide, 
Their feeble barriers burst ; 

And o’er the planter’s house and home 
The mighty waters rushing come ! — 

Sordid spirits I selfish ! cold ! 

Mark the havoc ye have made. 

Where your worthier sires of old, 

Their weary limbs have laid. 

Sheltered from the noonday sun. 

When the mower’s toil was done ! 

Haply, those, from whom ye sprung. 
Here, on love’s first errand came ! 

And those, to whom for life ye clung. 

First owned a kindred flame ! 

Here, beneath the moonlit boughs. 

Gave true-love knots and plighted vowt I 

Have ye marked those branches green. 
Waving in the silver light ; 

Murmuring breezes heard between. 

And pearl-drops glittering bright ; 
While the broad moon sailed on high 
Midway through the cloudless sky? 

Have ye seen this wreck forlorn 
Bourgeon forth, with early spring, 


NANCY LE BARON. 


2S? 


In the flowing robes of mom, 

Wreathed, like forest-king ; 

While songsters came their court to pay 
With flourish, glee, and roundelay 7 

Have ye seen the champion’s height. 
Naked, ’mid December’s sky. 

Like gladiator, stripped for fight, 

Whose arms aloft defy ; 

While, rushing on, the roaring North 
Led his blasts in riot forth 7 

Have ye seen, in winter day. 

The giant, with his armor on, 

Mail of ice o’er doublet gray ; 

Sparkling in the sun. 

More than all Golconda’s gems, 
Wreathed in Persia’s diadems'? 

- Have ye 7 cruel and unjust ! 

More relentless than the storm. 

Thus to level with the dust, 

To mar so fair a form ! 

V’or paltry gain your hands to raise 
'Gainst the seer of ancient days ! 

There thou li’st ! the village pride ! 
Hadst thou spread thy branches, when 
Tiber rolls his sacred tide, 

Rome had vowed to spare ! 

Classic honors to thy shade, 

Rome, imperial Rome had paid ! 

Till the Goth and Vandal power 
Seized the sceptre, stripped the crown 
From Grandeur’s brows, in evil hour, 
And hurled her statues down ! 

So thy trunk dishonored stands. 

By Gothic hearts and Vandal hands 1 

The savegs of the desert spared. 

And left ihes here to reign alone ; 

No rival .then tby glory shared. 

No brother near thy throne ! 

’Neath thy broad, symmetric shad^ 
Indian peace and war were made ! 

This, perchance, is toly gro md ! 

Here they formed their belted rJup 
Sagamores, encircling rouno 
Massasoit, their king. 


NANCY LE BARON. 


sse 


Smoked the pipe of peace, and swore 
Friendship with your sires of yore I 

Mighty monarch! peerless heart ! 

Sank thy glories are forever ! 

These, thy leaves, before we part, 

For memory let me sever ! 

These at least shall never die, 

Till, like tHee, thy poet lie. 

Poor Bob Carleton ! he was very much beloved by his sthoo - 
fellows, and there was not a dry eye among us all, as we crt wdeJ 
round the shore, on the following morning, when his lifeless body 
was found, and laid upon the bank, until suitable arrangements could 
oe made for its removal. 

In the midst of these painful recollections, I broke away from the 
scene before me, and pursued my path to old Chloe’s cottage. 
Enoch Runlet, as I have stated, had lived many years in my father’s 
family ; and it was not a matter for surprise, that he should recol- 
lect the son of his former master ; but I doubted if the old fortune- 
teller would remember me. Time and my fashionable tailor had 
wrought an essential change in my personal appearance, since the 
period, when I expanded the ungloved hand of a poor plough-boy, 
for the inspection of this sable prophetess. I had also gained flesh 
and color. I soon drew near the cottage, and perceived, at the dis- 
tance of two or three hundred rods beyond, a low tenement, which, 
from Enoch’s description, I supposed to be the residence of poor 
Nancy and her children. I tapped once or twice at old Chloe’s 
cottage door, and, receiving no answer, pulled the bobbin, and en- 
tered the apartment, which had served the old creature, so many 
years, for parlor, chamber, and kitchen. I perceived very little 
change, from its appearance some fifteen or twenty years before. 
No one was within, and I took a chair, determined to wait, till the 
occupant returned. Though Chloe could read, she was never at all 
inclined to be religious. She had been even disposed, at times, to 
scoff at the professors of Christianity. I was therefore agreeably 
surprised to find a Bible and a hymn-book upon her table. As I 
took up the former, I observed her spectacles, which had been .eft 
as a mark, at the chapter she had been reading. Turning to the 
title-page, I read in a neat hand, “ The gift of Nancy Le Baron, to 
her friend, Chloe DallonN — Ah! thought I, it was always thus; 
she suffered no fair occasion, for doing good, to pass unemployed. 
As Enoch stated, she has probably found a friend in this poor Afri- 
can ; and she has repaid the debt, ten thousand fold, by feeding her 


NANCY LE BARON. 


2S9 


famished spirit with the bread of eternal life. Ill-fated girl ! whose 
amiable and interesting qualities might have made a Christian and a 
gentleman supremely happy, doomed, alas, to have thy gentle spirit 
broken, by an intemperate brute! compelled to call a drunkard — 
husband! As I sat silently, in the midst of these meditations, my 
attention was arrested, by the voices of children: I listened atten- 
tively — there were more than one, and they were evidently en 
deavoring to sing in concert. As the sound appeared to come from 
the rear of the cottage, I stepped out, and, walking round thecern^r 
of the tenement, I came, unobserved, upon the little group. It 
consisted of three barefooted children, a boy, who appeared about 
eight years of age, and twm girls, who wmre considerably younger., 
of' whom the smaller was a cripple. They were very meanly clad, 
in coarse clothes, with numberless patches. — Enoch informed mo 
that poor Nancy had three children, thought I. — “ Come,” cried 
the boy, “come and sit upon the log.” — The girls accordingly took 
their seats upon a fallen pine, in wdiich position their faces were 
presented fairly to my view. I had no doubt they were Nancy’s 
children. The elder resembled her, in a remarkable manner. T 
drew back, that I might not disturb the operations of these young 
choristers. “ Come,” said the boy, — clearing his little pipes, and 
raising his hand, like the leader of a choir, he set the tune, and the 
girls promptly joined in. They sung the morning hymn : — 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun 

Thy daily course of duty run : 

Shake off dull sloth, and early rise 

To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

Their voices were inexpressibly sweet, and the accuracy of their 
prrrformance was remarkable. Nancy Le Baron had been the 
sweetest chorister of our village ; and I have often been struck with 
the extraordinary contrast, when I have seen her slight and delicate 
figure, in the gallery, by the side of old Major Goggle, the butcher, 
who was our head singer, and the fattest man in the county. — I 
have heard music in my time. — I have listened to fair damsels, 
pouring forth those hour-long strains of Beethoven, amid crowded 
saloons, while drowsy dowagers nodded out of time. I have never 
listened to the notes of Paganini’s violin, but I have heard the 
incomparable Pucci call forth the varying notes of King David’s 
harp, till I could almost believe myself before the great harper of 
Israel , I have opened my ears to imported organists and hireling 
choirs, while they have performed To the Glory of Guc?,” for so 
much lucre, yer diem. But I would not exchange the vocal concert 
nf these three little children, upon the pine log, for them all.— 
25 


VOL. 1. 


290 


NANCY LE BARON. 


“ Well,” said the boy, “it’s almost time for granny to come.” 
“ Yes,” replied the elder girl, “ and, maybe, dear mother is so 
much better, that she will let us com.e home, if we don’t make any 
noise.” — “ There comes granny now,” cried the little cripple, as 
she jumped from the log, and, seizing her crutch, scampered off 
towards the road. Turning my face in that direction, I immediately 
recognized Chloe Dalton : her general appearance was unchanged. 
She still held in her hand her old oaken stalf of unusual length, and 
walked with long and hasty strides. I observed, however, as she 
drew near, that she had lost somewhat of that erect carriage, for 
which she had been remarkable. Time had compelled her to how 
the neck, and look downward upon that kindred dust, to which she 
must ere long return. The children greeted her with strong evi- 
dences of attachment ; and, slackening her speed, to accommodate 
the little cripple, whom she led by the hand, she soon arrived with 
her charge at the cottage door. I had resumed my seat within. — 
She gazed upon my features intently, for a moment; — but it was 
evident that she did not recollect me. “ I was enjoying a walk from 
the village,” said I, “ this fine June morning, and I have taken the 
liberty to rest myself, for a short time, in your cottage.” — “ You ’re 
w’^elcome, sir,” said she. — She then placed three bowls upon the 
table, with a pitcher of milk, and a loaf of brown bread. “ Here, 
children,” said she, “ you ’ve waited long for your breakfast.” They 
sat round the board, and began their meal, but I observed that the 
elder girl was deeply affected ; her eyes were filled with tears. — 
“Don’t cry, Nancy,” said the old woman, “ maybe you’ll see 
mother to-morrow. Dr. Lankin is with her now, and I hope she ’ll 
be better.” A deep sigh escaped her, as she uttered these words. 
“Whose children are these?” I inquired, after they had finished 
♦heir breakfast, and gone forth to play. “ They are the children,” 
she replied, “ of a young widow lady, who lives in the next cottage, 
and is ill of a brain fever ; and I have taken them home for a while, 
that she may not be disturbed by their noise.” — “ Are not these 
the children of Nancy Le Baron ?” said I. — “ Yes, sir,” said she ; 
“ did you ever know her, or the old folks?” — “ You do not remem- 
ber me, Chloe,” I replied ; “ I am Isaac Lawder.” — The old crea- 
ture sprang from her seat, and seized my hand with great earnest- 
ness. — “ It’s the Lord,” she cried, “ that has sent you here ; for ray 
old head is full of care and trouble. Ah, Mr. Lawder, if you had 
only had your heart’s own way, poor Nancy would not Lave come 
to such misery.” — “ You remember,” said I, “ that you set up for 
a true prophetess, Chloe. You told me, that I should, one day or 
another, be the husband of Nancy Le Baron ; and, when I told youi 


NANCY LE BARON. 


291 


that she had rejected my offer, you bade me wait and be patient, for 
the time would surely come. And what do you say now, Chloe?” 

— “ Ah, Mr. Lawder,” she replied, “ those were foolish times, and 
wicked times too they were, when a short-sighted mortal, like me, 
pretended to look into futurity. Nancy might yet be your wife, if 
you were saint enough to match her in a better world, and there 
were such things as marriages there. But, in this, I am afraid her 
course is nearly finished. It is wonderful how the poor thing has 
borne up so long against so many troubles.” — “ Pray tell me, 
Chloe, how she came to marry such a brutal, drunken creature.” — 
“ Oh, Mr. Lawder,” she replied, “ it ’s a long story, and I ’m afraid 
it would prove a wearisome one : but I knew you loved Nancy, in 
her better days ; and, if you ’ve the time to spare, I ’ll give you 
some account of the matter.” — I assured her, that I desired not 
only to hear the account of Nancy’s sufferings, but, as far as 
possible, to relieve them. — “ You never used to despise the poor, 
Mr. Lawder, when you was a stripling,” said old Chloe; “and 
now, if the Lord has made you steward over many things, as maybe 
he has, I dare say you ’ll make ready to render a true account.” 

— “I desire to know, Chloe,” said I, “ before you proceed, how 
you gathered all these good and just impressions. I well remember 
the time, when you had very little regard for serious things ; and 
here I see a Bible in your cottage; and, as I find your glasses 
between the sacred pages, I suppose your eyes and your thoughts 
have been there.” — “ Even so, Mr. Lawder,” she replied ; “ the 
Lord has been good to me, and sent me an angel of mercy to lead 
me to the clear light — none other than the mother of these poor 
children, who, I ’m afraid, will be left alone, before long, in a cold 
world. It ’s now fourteen years, since I had my fever and expected 
to die. Miss Nancy used to come to my cottage every day, and she 
brought me a hundred little comforts ; she also made Dr. Lankin 
visit me; and, when, at length, I got a little better, she gave me 
that greatest comfort of all, that Bible. She made me read a chap- 
ter with her every day. At first, I did so, because I was desirous 
of pleasing her ; but it was not long before I began to do the same 
th.ng, to please myself. I never told any more fortunes, Mr. 
Lawder, but I tried to find out my own, from the word of God. I 
was born in this village. Eight-and-seventy times I have seen these 
woods cast off their leaves in autumn, and those banks yonder 
covered with violets in spring. For sixty-four years of my life, I 
lay down without any prayer, and got up without any thanksgiving 
It is a little less than fourteen years, since I bent my stubborn old 
knees in prayer, that never bent before in the service of the Lord 


292 


NANCT LE BARON. 


Miss Nancy knelt at my side, and, with an angel’s voice, thanked 
the God of all comfort for my recovery. She prayed often with me 
after that, and taught me to pray for myself. When I feel so happy, 
as I always do, after my poor prayers, I often think how many 
years I have lived prayerless and comfortless before. Poor Nancy 
was a happy, light-hearted girl then, Mr. Lawder. — It ’s about ten 
years, maybe a little more, since Dr. Darroch first came to the 
village. He came, recommended to old Squire Le Baron, and, in 
that way he got into the family at once, and was there a good part 
of his time. The squire never liked Dr. Lankin, and was willing 
enough to set up the new doctor. The squire used to lecture about 
temperance. Dr. Lankin made fun of his lectures, and used to say, 
that practice without preaching was better than preaching without 
practice; and that a man, who preached to other folks about total 
abstinence, ought never to wash his mouth with wine, unless as a 
medicine. This made the squire angry ; and, though he was an 
unbeliever, he used to quote Scripture, and swear dreadfully in 
favor of temperance. The new doctor pretended to he very religious. 
He was a teacher with Miss Nancy in the Sabbath school ; and he 
and the . squire disagreed, of course, about religion ; but they agreed 
perfectly about temperance. They were both members of the 
society, and used to sit down very often after dinner, and drink 
their wine, by the hour together, and get dreadfully worked up in 
favor of the temperance society. — The squire was then thought to 
be amazing rich. He used, at that time, to go very often to the 
city, to attend to his business there ; for he was concerned largely 
in a number of new corporations. People thought him the wea Ithi- 
est man in the village. They said he owned more than a third part 
of the stock, in what they called the Elastic Beeswax Company. 
Then there was a plan for tanning shoe-leather by steam ; the squire 
owned a part of that. There was no end to his speculating and 
trading. The new doctor proposed to the squire to take an interest 
in the great pill-machine, which made a million of pills in a minute. 
The squire made nothing of that, but bought up the whole concern. 
M.'iny folks thought there was no end to the squire’s money. When 
anybody spoke of these speculations to Dr. Lankin, he never 
uttered but one wmrd, and that was moonshine. — This Dr. Darroch 
won Miss Nancy’s affections. He was a good-looking man, and, 
no doubt, took with her mightily, because of his attention to the 
Sabbath school, which was poor Nancy’s hobby, Mr. Lawder. By 
the squire’s means, he had got a good deal of practice, though folks 
did n’t seem to think much of his skill. But pretty near one half 
the people owed the squire money, and the rest were afraid of 


NANCY LE BARON. 


29:3 


ifetting his ill-will. ’T was soon known, that the doctor was to be 
married to Miss Nancy; and, when he felt pretty sure of her, he 
began to do a good deal less doctoring. She was the squire’s only 
child, you know, and the doctor was thought to be a terrible lucky 
man. They hadn’t been married two months, before the squire’s 
affairs began to trouble him very badly. There was a dreadful 
pressure for money, they said ; and he could n’t pay his notes. The 
treasurer of the Steam Tannery failed, and he had been supposed 
to be so very rich, that they had not thought it worth while to ask 
any bonds of him. The Elastic Beeswax Company found, after 
laying out a deal of money, that there was no demand, of any con- 
sequence, for their wax. The folks, that managed the Company, 
had sent off into all parts of the country a monstrous sight of the 
elastic beeswax, to be sold ; and they were so sure of selling it, that 
they made a grand dividend, and Dr. Lankin said they borrowed 
the money of the banks to pay it with. The squire was full of cash 
after the dividend. He sold ten shares of the stock to poor Billy 
Buckram, the tailor, at an awful profit, they said. Billy sold every- 
thing off, goose, shears, and all, to buy the squire’s stock ; and 
resolved to live upon his income. Not long after the dividend, 
great lots of the elastic beeswax came back. Nobody wanted it. 
The concern came to nothing, and poor Billy Buckram lost his 
senses. As for the pill-machine, it worked, everybody agreed, a 
great deal better, and turned out more pills than they expected ; but 
there were so few patients to take them, that the machine was given 
up for. a bad job. 

“ The squire went on, from bad to worse, and the doctor followed 
Then Nancy’s troubles began. Everybody soon saw, that Darrocb 
had married the poor girl for her money. As wine was costly, the 
squire lectured no more for the temperance society, but soon took to 
brandy. So did the doctor. They quarrelled. The doctor called 
the squire a liar and a cheat ; and the squire called the doctor a 
quack and a villain. — At last they both became common drunkards, 
and Nancy’s heart w^as almost broken. When her father and 
mother were both dead, this vile man took no pains to conceal his 
abuse of her. There was no kith nor kin of the family then living, 
far nor near. Darroch knew this well enough, and he treated her 
like a dog. He run down to heel very quick. Nobody employed 
him, and nobody trusted him. Brandy and gin soon got to be too 
dear for him, and, whenever he could get it, he was very glad to 
get drunk on rum. He sold the furniture by piecemeal; and, when 
he had drunk up the chairs and tables, he stole her clothes and sold 
them. I ’ve seen him drag her about the room by her hair; and, 

VOL. 1. 25* 


294 


NANCY LE BARON. 


if I had n't heard her screams as I passed by, and gone in to help 
her, like enough he would have killed her. When he came home, 
drunk and raving, she used to take her children and fly to my 
cottage. One night, she spent the chief part of it in the wood, with 
her little ones, when I was absent, and had fastened up my house 
He broke the leg of the youngest child, that you saw with a crutch, 
by kicking it about the room. This poor woman, Mr. Lawder, has 
shown me her body, covered with black and blue spots, where he 
has kicked, and beat, and pinched her. Once, when she had a 
sharp pair, in the stomach, he gave her a wine-glass of laudanum, 
and made her swallow it, telling her it was red lavender. It nearly 
destroyed her, and would have put the poor thing out of misery, if 
she had not, directly after, discovered what she had swallowed, and 
taken a powerful emetic. The story got abroad, and Darroch would 
have been tarred and feathered, if there had been a pailful of tar in 
the village; though he solemnly swore he did n’t mean to kill her. 
At last, he broke his neck, and Beelzebub was chief mourner. But, 
for all this, Mr. Lawder, before he took to liquor in such a way, he 
was as civil and obliging, as any other man. Liquor changed him 
into a brute beast. After his death, which took place a little over 
two years ago, she came to live in the cottage yonder ; and, with the 
aid of her children, and such little assistance as I could give her, 
she has been able to rub along, poor creature. Deacon Mixer, who 
is chairman of the selectmen, has often said they ought all to 
be sent to the poor-house. But 1 told him last town -meeting day, 
that they would n’t go there while my two old hands could keep ’era 
out. I told him so, afore all the folks, on the steps of the town- 
house ; and Enoch Runlet, that used to work for your father, threw 
up his hat, and said I ought to have three cheers for it. — I can v.’ork 
hard yet, old as I am, and I ’ve laid by a trifle, enough to bury my 
bones, at least, Mr. Lawder.” 

At the conclusion of this sentence, the elder girl ran into the room, 
quite out of breath; — “ Granny,” said she, as soon as sh.e could 
speak, “you must go to mother directly.” — “ I hope, Nancy,” 
said old Chloe, “ that you have not been home to disturb your sick 
mother.” — “ No, granny,” the child replied, “ I only went and sat 
down outside the cottage to listen. Mother is a great deal better, 1 
know she is. I heard her sing sweetly, first one tune and then 
another. Why, granny, she sang a part of Auld Lang Syne, that 
you ’ve heard her sing so often, and then a little of the Sicilian 
Hymn. Then, granny, you can’t tell how merry she was; she 
laughed out loud; then she cried out — ‘Oh, husband, spare my 
life ; don’t kill the poor children ;’ and then she ’d laugh and be so 


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NANCY LE BARON 


295 


merry, granny. I heard Dr. Lankin trying to stop her. I wondei 
what he wants to prevent her from being happy for. He eame to 
the door, and looked about, as though he wanted to see somebody; 
and, when he saw me, he told me to run and tell you to come there 
as soon as you could.” — “ Poor child !” said Chloe, aside, as she 
put on her honnet, and, taking her tall staff, beckoned me to the 
door. I followed a few steps from the cottage. — “ Will you watch 
over these children,” said she, “ till my return? I am afraid it ’s 
all over with her. Dr. Lankin said she could not survive, unless 
she dvept.” — I assured her, that I would remain with the children ; 
and she strode away, with the vigor of youth, towards the humble 
dwelling of her sick friend. I returned to the cottage, where the 
group had collected, to hear little Nancy’s account of their mother. 
Her favorable report had inspired them with great glee. It would 
have been impossible to contemplate these innocent, unsuspecting 
children, and contrast their high hopes, with that dreadful reality, 
which was probably near at hand, without a feeling of deep pity, 
had they been the offspring of strangers. I had known their mother 
from her earliest infancy. — I had loved her, when the impulses of 
my heart were fresh and strong, — I had never loved another. As 
I gazed upon these little ones, and more than imagined, that, ere 
long, they would be the motherless children of that ill-fated girl, my 
eyes filled with tears. ‘I turned to the window to conceal them — 
for why should I endeavor to prepare these little ones for that ter- 
rible blow, whose force would not be diminished, the tithe of a hair, 
by any preparation of mine ; and which — for I had some faint hope 
still — might yet be withheld through the infinite mercy of God ? — 
“ Let ’s go, Susan,” said the elder sister to the younger, “ and 
gather some violets for mother.” — “I wish,” cried Susan, “ the 
wild strawberries were ripe, mother is so fond of them.” — “My 
dear children,” said I, “ Chloe will not be pleased to have you go 
far from the cottage.” — “ Oh, sir,” said the little boy, “ it ’s only a 
short way ; the violets are plenty on the bank there.” — “ Well,” said 
I, “ we will all go together.” — The mournful spirit gathers addi- 
tional sadness from the untimely gayety of others. I could scarcely 
suppress my emotion, w’hile I surveyed these happy children, sport- 
ing upon the flowery bank, and collecting bunches of violets for 
their mother. — Ah, thought I, never, perhaps, to gratify her 
earthly sense, but to wither on her grave ! — They grew weary of 
their pastime. “ It ’s almost noon,” said the little boy, looking up 
at the sun ; “ I wonder Chloe does not come back.” I drew them 
together, and told them some interesting stories. — In a few 
moments, little Nancy sprang up, exclaiming, that Dr. Lankin wa« 


296 


NANCY LE BARON. 


coming. I saw, on horseback, advancing along the road, the same 
person, whom I had seen in Deacon Mixer’s bar-room. The chil- 
dren would have run to inquire of him after their mother, but I bade 
them remain upon the bank, while I went forward to meet him 
alone. “Pray, sir,” I inquired, “how is the poor woman in the 
next cottage?” — “ She ’s dead, sir, — they ’re laying her out, sir, 
— a very fine day, sir.” — And forward went the busy man, to 
whom death was an every-day affair. He troubled not his head 
with matters, that were not connected \Mh his profession. It was 
his office to battle with the king of terrors ; and, in this brief man- 
ner, to convey to every inquirer the tidings of death or life, defeat 
or victory. — My heart was full, as I returned to these unconscious 
orphans. I could not muster resolution to acquaint them with the 
fatal result. I resolved, if possible, to hold them in suspense, till old 
Chloe’s return. — “ May I carry my flowers to mother now, sir?” 
said little Susan.— -“Not now, my dear child,” I replied. — I 
could not, at that moment, have articulated another word. — “ Is 
dear mother any worse, sir?” inquired her brother. — “ Chloe will 
be here soon,” I replied ; “ and then we shall know all.” 

An hour or more had elapsed, when I saw old Chloe, coming 
homeward. Her whole manner was changed. She walked very 
slowly, with her face toward the ground. The children ran to meet 
her. I did not restrain them, but remained seated on the bank. 
When they had reached the spot, where she was, the good old crea- 
ture threw down her staff, took the little cripple in her arms, and 
bathed , it with her tears. She, no doubt, at the same moment, 
announced the solemn tidings ; for the elder sister clasped her hands 
together, and I distinctly heard her cries, as she sat down upon a 
stone, at the road-side. The boy ran back to the place where 1 sat, 
and with a wildness, almost alarming, exclaimed, “ My mother’s 
dead!” In an instant after, as I took him in my arms, he cried, 
“ My poor dear mother,” and burst forth in a torrent of grief. — I 
uttered not a syllable, but pressed the poor child closely to my 
bosom. The bitter anguish of this orphan boy would have smitten 
a heart of adamant, till the waters flowed. — At length he became 
rather more’ composed. His sobs would, now and then, be inter- 
rupted w'ith half-uttered ejaculations — “My poor mother I” — 
“ Poor, dear sisters !” — “ What shall w^e do now?” — “ God will 
provide for you and your sisters, my poor boy,” said I; “but I 
perceive, that Chloe and they iiave gone into the cottage. Let us 
go to them.” — I took him by the hand, and led him thither. I took 
my seat, and placed the boy in my lap, while old Chloe held the 
girls upon her knees, with an expression of the deepest sorrow. 


NANCY LE BARON. 


297 


After some time, I asked Chloe if I could be of any further ser* 
vice to her, or the children, that day. She shook her head, and 
told me that a clever man, a carpenter, lived half a mile beyond ; 
and that he would attend to such things as were necessary. I took 
her by the hand, and, kissing these poor orphans, promised to see 
them the next day, and departed. 

I returned to nry lodgings at the inn, and retired to my chamber, 
deeply solemnized by the scene, through which I had passed. I 
had never contemplated a cas%, in which cause and effect were more 
intelligibly related to each other. The destruction of this young 
physician ; the long series of sufferings which his wife, once a lovely 
and delicate girl, had undergone ; her extreme poverty, and sickness, 
and delirium, and death, and the forlorn condition of these hapless 
orphans were plain matters of fact. Intemperance, on the part of 
the husband, was the manifest cause of them all. — I was too sol- 
emnly and painfully affected, to go from my lodgings, during the 
remainder of the day. — On the following morning, I went once 
more to Chloe’s cottage : I arrived at an early hour : when 1 
raised the latch, she was on her knees, w'ith the children around 
her. I immediately closed the door, and dropped upon my own, by 
the bed-side, till she had finished her supplication to the throne of 
grace. I have certainly listened to prayers, far more eloquent than 
old Chloe’s ; but never to a more natural and touching appeal to the 
Father of the fatherless. — The children appeared much gratified to 
see me again, as a partner in their affliction. — Chloe informed me, 
that the funeral would take place on the next day, at one o'clock, 
the usual village hour, upon such occasions ; and that Parson 
Me Whistler would make the prayer. I perceived, that she had sev- 
eral little arrangements to make for herself and the children, in con- 
nection with the solemnities of the following afternoon, and I forbore 
to occupy her time any further. I talked to the little orphans, for 
a short time, urging upon their young minds, such matters, as were 
adapted to their situation and iheir years. “ Be good children,” 
said I, at parting; “and God will surely be a father to you.” — 
“I know he will,” said little Susan, “for dear mother told me 
so.” 

As I w'as sitting at the open wdndow of my chamber, on the fo. 
lowing day, waiting for the appointed hour, I was attracted by the 
sound of voices beneath ; one of which was somewhat familiar to 
my ear. I looked forth, and saw Enoch Runlet, in conversation 
with the inn-keeper. —“ Well, Enoch,” said the deacon, “ what 
are you shooling after now, with your bettermost clothes onP 
— “Why, deacon, I’m a-going to Nancy Darroch’s funeral’ 


29S 


NANCY LE BARON. 


— “Ha, ha! Why, Enoch,” the deacon replied, “you’ll got 
nothing there, I reckon, stronger than cold water.” — “Never 
mind,” rejoined Enoch ; “ maysobe, I ’ll make it up, when I have 
the pleasure of coming to yours. Deacon Mixer.” — “You’re an 
ungodty dog,” rejoined the deacon, with no little agitation in his 
countenance ; for there are not many rum-selling deacons, to whom 
the idea of their last, great change is altogether agreeable. — 
“ Come now, deacon,” said Enoch, “don’t be angry with a poor 
fellow ; I should really like a little something to whet my whistle 
with.” At the same moment he drew a piece of silver from his 
pocket — it was the identical dollar, — I had not the shadow of a 
doubt of it, — that I had given him, upon condition that he should 
not exchange it for liquor. The exhibition of a monarch’s signet- 
ring never produced a more instantaneous effect, when unexpectedly 
presented before the eyes of his astonished vassals, than was mani- 
fested by good Deacon Mixer, at the sight of Enoch’s bright dollar. 

— “I am not angry, Mr. Runlet,” said he, “ not at all, not at all ; 
you have an odd way, you know, that takes a body rather suddenly, 
to be sure; walk in, Mr. Runlet,” — stepping back within the door 

— “what ’ll -ye please to take!” — Enoch stood grinning at the 
deacon, with an expression of frolicsome contempt, as he slowly put 
back the dollar into his pocket. — “Dear Deacon Mixer,” said he, 
“ with your leave, I ’ll take a draught of cold water out of a clean 
tumbler, and as all yours are rummy, I can suit myself best else- 
where.” He then turned upon his heel, with a chuckling laugh, 
and walked off in the direction of Chloe’s cottage. I was agreeably 
surprised to find that my dollar was still in his possession. 

He had not been gone many minutes, before the village bell sent 
forth its short, sharp sound. — I walked slowly forward, on my way 
to the house of mourning. When I arrived at Chloe’s cottage, it 
was closed, and the door was fastened. I moved onward, and soon 
came to the late habitation of poor Nancy, whose mortal remains 
were about to be consigned thus prematurely to the grave. As I 
approached the cottage, I heard the voices of several singers ; and 
there were some persons standing uncovered around the door. Among 
them I recognized Enoch Runlet. His deportment appeared so 
grave and becoming, that I ventured to inquire of him, if it were 
usual to have singing at funerals. He replied, in a whisper, that it 
was not very common, and that these singers were Miss Nancy’s 
Sunday scholars, whom she used to instruct, until her sickness pre- 
vented her from going to meeting any more. — He had scarcely 
replied, when old Chloe came to the door. — “ I have been expect- 
ing you,” said she ; “ though the room is quite full, I have kept a 


NANC\ LE BARON. 


299 


seat for you.” — I entered softly, and sat down among the group. 
There were about fourteen boys and girls, who were occupying the 
time, before the clergyman’s arrival, in singing appropriate hymns, 
under the direction of a grave young man, who, as I was afterwards 
informed, had taken charge of Nancy’s scholars, in addition to his 
own class, during her severe illness. There was something abso- 
lutely overpowering in the scene around me. I could scarcely com- 
mand my feelings, as I listened to the notes of this infant choir, at 
the obsequies of one, who, if purity of life and the love of God could 
furnish wings for a heavenly flight, had gone to touch an unearthly 
harp, before the throne of Jehovah. — In the centre of this little 
apartment, upon a small table, was a coffin of stained pine ; at its 
head sat old Chloe, with Susan on her lap ; upon each side of her 
were the two other children. They were tidily dressed in their 
Sabbath apparel. — We had waited long for the minister. At 
length, as the afternoon was waning away, Chloe evidently became 
uneasy ; and finally despatched a messenger to the village. When 
the messenger returned, he stated that Parson McWhistler was very 
sorry ; — he had forgot all about it, and was just then stepping into 
his chaise to attend the wedding of Captain Faddle’s daughter, in 
the next town. — There was a solemn pause, upon the announce- 
ment of this answmr. It was finally interrupted by old Chloe. 
“ The good book tells us,” said she, “ that it ’s better to go to the 
house of mourning than to the house of feasting. Tell me,” she 
continued, with a trembling voice, and quivering lip, “ if the body 
of this dear saint shall go into the grave without a prayer!” — The 
young man, of whom I have spoken, rose from his chair, and, ad- 
vancing to the foot of the coffin, lifted his hands and his eyes to 
heaven ; and, if his fervent supplications reached not the throne of 
grace, they penetrated the hearts, and drew forth the tears of every 
listener: at the close, he could scarcely articulate, for his own. 

For a short time we sat in silence ; at length, the sexton came in, 
to perform his last office. The coffin was of the most inexpensive 
kind ; it was without any tablet to designate the tenant within ; and 
its cover was of one entire piece, which had been slid down from off 
the face, that all, who were so disposed, might take a parting look 
of the deceased. The sexton, with the assistance of the carpenter, 
was proceeding to adjust the cover, and secure it with common nails, 
a process not unusual in some of our remote villages, where, even 
upon such occasions as these, the superior cost of a screw is taken 
into consideration, at the funerals of the poor. “ Stop,” said old 
Chloe, as she raised little Susan in her arms. The poor child took 
its last look, and dropped a tear upon the cold forehead ot its motker 


800 


NANCT LE fiARON. 


and placed upon her bosom the bunch of violets, which she hnd 
gathered, with so light a heart, but yesterday. Little Nancy and 
her brother followed the example, and they deposited their bunches 
of flowers within the coffin. — During these moments. I had gazed 
upon the features of the dead. There was not enough, amid the 
wreck, to remind me of the lovely fabric, that I once admired. The 
forehead, sadly checkered, but less by time than care, the cheek, 
hollow and pale, the sunken eye, the bloodless lip, and the hair, 
prematurely gray, had no part nor lot, among my vivid recollections 
of Narijy Le Baron. 

The painful process was at last performed, and the sound of the 
death-hammer — for such it may well be called — had ceased. — ■ 
While the sounds were ringing in my ears, I could not expel from 
my mind the recollection, that, among the inhabitants of Padang, 
intoxicating drink is called Pakoe, which, in the language of the 
Malays, means a nail, because, as they affirm, it drives one more 
nail into their coffins.* It may be truly said, that every nail was 
driven into the coffin of this ill-fated woman, by the demon of in- 
temperance, whose vicegerent was a degraded, drunken husband. 

The body was now placed upon the bier. There was not a fol- 
lower, save her children, who claimed a drop of kindred blood with 
the deceased. No other herald marshalled the array than common 
sense, which well enough determines the fitness of things. Old 
Chloe wept next the body, with the two elder children ; I led little 
Susan by the hand ; the Sabbath scholars came next, with their 
leader, whose admirable prayer I never have forgotten, and trust I 
never shall forget. The remainder fell in, according to their incli- 
nations. — The body was committed to the ground, and I was about 
returning with old Chloe and the children, when I overtook Enoch 
Runlet, who was rubbing his eyes with the cuff of his coat. “ This 
is too tough for me, Mr. Lawder,” said he ; “ all this here misery 
comes of rum. I’ll have no more to do with it.” 

After I had left the grave, I observed the members of the Sab- 
bath school, and several other persons, gathering together near the 
grave-yard. Old Chloe informed me the next morning, that they 
had made a collection for the little orphans. “ Enoch Runlet,” said 
she, “ gave more than any other ; he gave a bright silver dollar.” 

For the reader’s gratification, it may be proper to state, that these 
little children have found friends, abundantly able and willing to 
shield them from want, and to guide them in the paths of virtue and 
religion. — About a year after this event, old Chloe sunk to rest 


♦ Eighth Report American Temperance Society, p. 34. 


NANCY Lh BARO.J. 


301 


requesting, with her last breath, that she might be buried by the 
side of her ^riend. “ There ’s diffeijnoe of color,” she used to say, 
“ in this world, but I don’t believe there ’ll be any in the resurrec- 
tion.” 

Deacon Mixer had frequently admonished Enoch Runlet, that he 
would die of the liver complaint. The deacon was mistaken ; he 
died of that very complaint himself, leaving his wife and two sons 
exceedingly poor, and all three addicted to spirit. Enoch is yet 
living ; his reformation appears to be complete ; he works hard and 
lays up money ; and his generous contribution, for the benefit of 
poor Nancy’s children, has obtained for him a good name, which is 
better than riches. 

The energies of man can never be more wisely or beneficially 
employed, than for the construction of beacons, upon those points of 
danger, where sunken ledges lie concealed, and upon which many 
have ignorantly rushed, as upon certain destruction. It is designed, 
by this simple story, to hang out a light for the guidance of those, 
who are just embarking upon the voyage of life. If, by the perusal 
of this little work, one alone of my fair readers shall be effectually 
preserved from all that complicated wretchedness, which is the 
inevitable lot of her, who weds an intemperate man, I shall not 
regret the time, as lost, which I ha ve devoted to the narrative of 
Nancy Le Baron. 

▼OL. I. 


3<6 



V 





MENByw.HfeRRlCK.se. 


THE ■ST'ACE COACM 


>■ 

< 

V 

-I 

/ 


I 






THE 


TEMPERANCE TALES. 


BY 

LUCIUS M. SARGENT. 

0 


Uum vim vis penetravit, 

Consequitur gravitas membrorum, praepediuntur 
Crura vaccillanti, tardescil lingua, madet mens. 

Nant oculi, clamor, singultus, jurgia gliscunt. 

Lucretius, Lib. iii. Ver. 47ft 


) t LUME TWO. 




SPRINGFIELD, MASS.: 

W. J. HOLLAND & CO 

1873. 


Elntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, by 
WILLIAM S. DAMRELL, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachnsetti. 





t 


KITTY GRAFTON 


Amon» tie most favoiable notices, which have been so kindly bestowed upon vhe Temperance 
Tales, there have l>een occasional strictures upon the exhibttion of deacons, church-membeis, and 
cler^yineii, ir an unta/orahle liirhi. The story now ofiered to the world, mav be read wuhout 
diiguieiude, by those, who are sensitive uprui this point. A respectful regard lor the opinions of 
others has proinpied tlie writer to ofi'er u plain exposiium of his ow’n, 

ll, in these huintde etioris to promote the welfare of mankind, the hofy office of pastor and its 
correlative offices ol deacon and church-ineinher had tmywhere^ on einy page^ been oiheivisd 
appr>.»arhed than with udectionate respect, there would assuredly have been g’ood irround of olience 
Ihit It lias been far oiherwise. Not only have these offices^ as such, been presented in the most 
respe<*iiul point of view, but examples can readily he found, over the leng'ih and breadth of the 
I emperaiu e Tales, ol individual deacons, church-members, and clergymen, of the most pious and 
exemjdary lives and conversations. 

I'lie stricture musw there lore be consnlered, as limited to the occasional introduction of an anti- 
temperance minister, a rum sellina" deacon, ora drunken church-meiiiher. 

Nothin;^ can be more uertinent here, than a few extracts from a late letter to the Rev, Dr. 
Edwards, troni the Rev. Leonard W'oods, 3). D. Professor of Christian Tlieolog’y, in the Theoloarical 
Institution, Aiulover, Massichuseiis.* “ Whe* le teredo-/ the work /J" the ministry {thiriy‘eight 
year.t og*j) it tons the general and ahnost nniversat practice for mini-tters to make a frequent use of 
stirn/ilnting drinks^ e^p- dally on the Sabbath. They co/tsiae/ed this practice an importn U means of 
promoting Chur health, ■•'uiitrit mg them under fatigue, and incrtasi g the vigor of ihur consiitu 
tion. The ge erality of phyniciana approved of this practice, and often recommended bra dy, wine, 
gin, etc., as Che best remedy for diseases of the stomach and lungs Every family that I visited, 
deemed it n ait of ki dness, a d no non- than what common civility required, to offer me wine, 
or distilled spirit, a d thought it a little stringe. if / rrfa-ted to tiri ik. At funerals, ths 
bereaved friends a d others were accustomed to use strong drink bffnre and after going to the burial. 
At ordinations, cou cils, and all other meetings of rninist rs, different kinds of stimulating drinks 
uteri jtrovided, and there were but few who did not partake of them." ...... 

*••••“ The state of things which I have referred to, among men of my own 

profession, together with its maiiifesl consequences, began, early it my mi listry, to alarm my fears. 
/ remember that at a particular period before the temperance reformation commenced, I was able to 
count up nearly fetrty mi isters of the Gospel, a' d none of them at a very great dista 'ce. who were 
either drtmkeirds, or so frtr addicted to intemperate drinking, that their reputation and usefulness 
were greatly injured, if not utterly ruined. A d I could mention an ordi nation, that took place 
about twenty years ago, at which, I myself , was ashamed and grieved to see two aged ministers 
literally drunk ; anrf a third, indecently excited with strong drink. These disgusting and appalling 
facts I should wish might he concealed. But they were made public by the guilty persons ; and J 
have thought it J st and proper to mention them, in order to show how much we owe to a compos, 
eio ate God for the great deliverance he has wrought." 

The offices i>f the church are not more likely to come into disrepute, at the present time, by an 
intimation that drunkenness mav be found amonar the professors of Christianity, than was the 
profession of Christianity itself, when an inspired apostle rebuked the drunkenness of the primitive 
disciple; around the table of their Lord. But these offices may well be considered of doubtful dignity, 
whenever the concealment of corruption shall be deemed essential to their well-being. 

It is li isirutle to show, that there is no other absolute secitritv from the evils of intemperance, than 
in the whole armor of a cold-water man. It is not possible more forcibly to exhibit this truth, which 
8tif;h multilitdes appear unwilling to believe, than by exhibiting, in a striking light, the insufficiency 
even of the offices and professions of religion to protect those teachers and discfples of Christianity, 
who, while they pray not to be led into temptation, obviously prefer the path of danger to that of 
safety. 


M Y ministerial labors commenced in the villag-e of Heathermead, 
about nine years ago ; and, in these times, when a love of change 
appears to be almost epidemical among ministers and people, it may 
seem somewhat remarkable, that I still preach where my pastoral 
life began, to many willing ears, and, I trust, through God’s mercy, 
to some sanctified hearts. 


VOL. II. 


♦Ninth Rep. Amer. Temp. Soc., p. 49 
1 * 


6 


KITTY GRAFTOf^ 


I was first called to the ministry as the colleagae of a very aged 
man, the Rev. Adrian More. He was iry father, — not after the 
flesh, — my own natural father I never l-eheld ; he perished at sea, 
a few months only before I was born. — This aged minister was my 
father in the Lord. I was placed under his care, to be prepared for 
the university ; and the good old man prepared me, I trust, for the 
faithful service of the best of masters. When I quitted the univer> 
sity, I was instructed for the ministry under his direction ; and, sub- 
sequently, at his own request, I became associated with him in his 
holy office. This venerable man, at the age of eighty years, gave 
me the charge upon my ordination ; and my first public discourse, 
on the ensuing Sabbath, was a sermon over his lifeless remains. He 
was ripe for the sickle, and longed to be gathered in. The energies 
of a good constitution and the grace of God had sustained him for 
six and fifty years, in the performance of his sacred trust ; and 
when, in God’s good time, his spiritual guard was-relieved, by the 
institution of another at his side ; this faithful old soldier of the 
cross laid down his annor of the present world, and went to that 
rest, appointed for the dead, who die in the Lord. 

During the period of my pupilage, we had many pleasant rambles 
together, and I never failed to gather some useful instruction by the 
way ; for his conscientious impressions of duty, as my instructor, 
forbade him to be satisfied with affording me the mere technicalities 
of education ; and our conversation, at such times, was eminently 
useful, in the improvement of my reasoning and colloquial powers. 

Upon one occasion, we had strolled almost to the confines of the 
next village ; in which it was a matter of painful notoriety, that the 
clergyman consulted his own comfort, rather than the spiritual wants 
of his parishioners : “ Let us turn,” said my old master, — with a 
smile upon his benignant features, in which the slight touch of 
pleasantry, that first arose, was speedily chased away by an expres- 
sion of sadness ; — “ let us turn,” said he ; “ let us not press further 
upon our brother’s domains, lest we be suspected of coming to see 
the nakedness of the land.” — Upon the very borders of the adjoin- 
ing village, though within the limits of our own, there stood an 
ancient cottage, of peculiar structure, with its multiplied gables, and 
its second story projecting over the first. From its broken windows 
and doors, I supposed it to have been abandoned. It is yet stand- 
ing, and is the very last cottage, as you leave Heathermead, on the 
north. In the rear of this building, there were, at that time, the 
remains of an uncommonly large barn ; the timbers and roof were 
then in existence, but the boards and the lower part of the interior 
had been removed. As we drew near, a female came forth, and 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


7 


stood, without any apparent motive, looking steadily towards us, aa 
we passed. — “I did not think it was inhabited,” said I, — “ It is 
not,” replied my old master, “ excepting by that lone woman.” — As 
we drew nigh, I had an opportunity of observing the solitary occu- 
pant more closely. Her person was tall and thin ; her eye, sunkep 
and haggard ; and her hair, which was wholly uncovered, and quite 
gray, bore no evidence of personal attention. The expression of 
her countenance was decidedly bitter and malevolent. When we 
came in front of the cottage — “Good morning, Mrs. Grafton,” 
said my old master. The effect of his salutation would have been 
as perceptible upon the features of a statue. She stood perfectly 
still, gazing upon us with unabated severity, and in perfect silence. 

— “1 wdll try once more,” said he, aside. — “I hear excellent 
accounts of your children, Mrs. Grafton.” — “ Umph ! — the poor- 
house !” — she replied, with a sneering expression, and walked back 
into the cottage, without uttering another word. — “ It is in vain,” 
said he, as vve walked slowly away ; “ this unhappy woman is 
utterly impracticable ; I can do nothing with her, though I have 
made many and various attempts, for several years.” — “.Is she 
crazy, sir?” I inquired. — “ There are some persons who think so, 
but I do not,” he replied. “ Here she has lived all her days. That 
cottage was built by her father ; she was born there ; her parents 
died there ; there she was married ; and there she gave birth to five 
children ; and she is resolved to die there. No — she is not crazy 

— she is desperate. Her case is one of the most extraordinary that 
I have ever known. The story is too long to be told during our 
walk home ; but, if I have no particular engagement this evening, 
I will relate it to you.” 

My old master had scarcely returned thanks after our evening 
repast, and seated himself in his arm-chair, when I drew near, and 
looked up in his face with an expression which he readily under- 
stood. — “ Well, my child,” said he, “ you shall not be disappointed 
of your story, though it may cost me some pain in the relatum.”^ 
“How old was that woman, sir,” said I, “whom we saw this 
morning at the cottage door?” — “ I cannot tell you precisely,” he 
replied, “ without a recurrence to my records ; she is well advanced 
in years, though somewhat younger than you would be led to sup 
pose from her appearance. Harrowing care and bitter disappoint- 
ment will sometimes lay hold of time’s checkered signet, and 
suddealy fix the impression of old age, as effectually, as though it 
were done by the more dilatory process of time itself. But I will 
tell you the story from the beginning. — Very many years ago, there 
came to this village a man, whose name was Gotlieb Jansen : he 


8 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


brought with him his wife. They were of that class of persons, 
who have been called rcdemptioners. They came to this country 
from a village on the borders of the Rhine. They vvere extremely 
poor, and embarked with an understanding, that, when they arrived 
in America, they should voluntarily bind themselves to servitude, 
for the advantage of the ship-owner, until their passage-money 
should be paid. They arrived at the port of Philadelphia ; where, 
at the present day, there are some opulent and fashionable families, 
who have good sense enough to trace, with pleasure, their origin to 
those redemptioners of Germany, who brought nothing hither from 
their native shores, but honest hearts and willing hands. Gotlieb 
Jansen and his wife, upon their arrival, were young, healthy, in- 
dustrious, frugal, and strictly temperate. He was an expert gardener, 
and well skilled in agriculture, in all its departments. In the me- 
tropolis of Pennsylvania he soon found employment for his tahmt in 
horticulture. As wages were proportioned to experience and skill, 
Jansen’s compensation, and the perquisites and privileges of the 
garden and green-house of a private gentleman, in whqse service he 
labored, soon procured him the means of redeeming himself and his 
young wife from their voluntary bondage. He continued to labor in 
his vocation, with uninterrupted health and indefatigable industry 
for seven years. His employer was a member of the society of 
Friends, of whom Jansen never spoke but with affectionate respect. 
At the end of this term, his earnings, which had been judiciously 
invested, under the counsel of his Quaker friend, amounted to no 
inconsiderable sum. He was desirous of trying the virtue of his 
faithful share and pruning-hook upon acres and orchards of his own. 
He has often told me how much he suffered, when he came to break 
the matter to his kind master. The Quaker paused for some mo- 
ments ; and at length observed, that he owned a tract of fair land 
in that part of the village of Heathermead, which is called Heather- 
mead End ; that he might go and look at it ; and, if he liked it, he 
should have a deed of it for a certain sum. Jansen lost no time in 
making a journey to Heathermead, and examining the land, which 
was manifestly of an excellent quality. He discovered, however, 
that the tract could readily be sold, for a greater sum, to the farmers 
ol Heathermead, who best knew its value. Here, as he failed not 
to perceive, was an admirable chance to cheat the old Quaker ; but 
double-dealing was not one of the secrets, by which Gotlieb Jansen’s 
prosperity had arisen. He faithfully represented the matter to his 
master : — ‘ Thee likest the tract P said the Quaker. — ‘ It is as fine 
land as I ever saw, said Jansen, ‘ and I am greatly pleased with it.’ 
— ‘Thee hast served me seven years,’ rejoined the Quaker, ‘ and 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


9 


thee hast pleased me right well. I well know the value of that 
land, but thee shalt ha\e a deed for the sum I said unto thee.’ — I 
have seen Gotlieb Jansen shed tears of gratitude, as he described 
his separation from his old Quaker master, when, with an affec- 
tionate pressure of ihe hand, and ‘ Fare thee well, friend Jansen,’ 
he put into his hands the deed of this valuable tract, for not more 
than three fourths of its real value. 

“ Gotlieb Jansen’s first care was to erect upon his land the house 
and bam, the remains of which we passed this morning. The 
peculiar structure of the one, and the unusually large dimensiens 
of the other were subjects of much conversation in the village ; ai d, 
if all the strictures, which were made upon Jansen's proceedings at 
the time, had been collected together, we should have quite a vol- 
ume of commentaries. The general impression, for a while, ran 
decidedly against him, as a whimsical fellow. At a short distance 
from his dwelling, he had erected, rather for pleasure than profit, a 
little conservatory for plants. At that time, probably, not an inhab- 
itant of Heathermead had ever beheld a green-house ; and the good 
people of the village were exceedingly perplexed in relation to the 
proprietor's design ; but, as Gotlieb, while his buildings were in 
progress, was busily engaged in planting an extensive orchard, the 
farmers’ wives were almost unanimously of opinion, that the new 
structure was designed for drying apples. They were not a little 
disposed to laugh in their sleeves at poor Gotlieb, for erecting such 
a building, so long before he could possibly expect to gather apples 
from his young trees. The farmers themselves were not altogether 
without good cause, as they esteemed it, for a little chuckling, at 
Jansen’s expense. Underneath every apple-tree, as he set it in the 
ground, he had placed a large flat stone, which, they pleasantly 
observed, was not likely to afford much nourishment. This was a 
German custom, designed to prevent the roots from tapping, or 
striking downward, and to compel them to take their course along 
the upper and richer soil. 

‘ Gotlieb Jansen was a man of few words. Those precious 
hours, which so many disinterested people devote to the affairs of 
others, this honest German bestowed upon his own : he labored on, 
contented with the proverb, which bids those laugh, who win. 
Matters soon however began to wear a very different appearance. 
His intercourse with the people of Heathermead speedily established 
his reputation, as an obliging, good-natured man ; he seemed not 
desirous of wrapping himself, or his affairs, in unusual mystery ; 
and the farmers’ wives were particularly inclined to think well of 
Gotlieb Jansen when he expounded the riddle of the green-house, 


10 


KITTY GRAFTCY. 


by telling them, that it was meant as a plaything for his ‘ goot 
woman, ^ who was extremely fond of cultivating flowers. In a few 
years, his agricultural success had thoroughly established his repu- 
tation, as an excellent husbandman ; and Jansen’s farm became not 
less an object of attraction to the farmers of the village, than his 
green-house and flower-garden to their wives and daughters. He had 
readily assimilated and become one of the people ; and was univer- 
sally beloved and respected. About a year after his arrival in this 
village, his wife gave birth to a daughter. Gotlieb and his wife, in 
the progress of time, became members of our church, and thej were 
pious Christians. Their daughter, Christiana, grew up an uncom^ 
monly beautiful yo.ung woman. She was their only child ; and, il’ 
the parents were particularly censurable for any fault, it was for 
their doting partiality towards this interesting girl. They were 
more than willing to gratify her, in all her desires. Her spirit was 
high, and her temper extremely quick ; but her heart was full of 
generosity, and her disposition, towards those she loved, was amia- 
ble and kind. She inherited the partiality of her parents for the 
cultivation of flowers ; and the garden and the little green-house 
were her chief delights. Her features were characteristic, in no 
very remarkable degree however, of her foreign origin ; but, at the 
age of eighteen, she was singularly attractive. Kitty Jansen was, 
at that time, deservedly styled the beauty of Heathermead End. 
Her surpassing comeliness was universally acknowledged, in our 
parish, with a single exception. There was a Miss Pamela Mickle, 
who had herself been handsome in her day, but was then in her 
wane, who solemnly protested, that she never could see it. After 
the description, which I have given you of Kitty Jansen,” continued 
my old master, “ you will scarcely be able to trace a vestige of that 
lovely girl, in the miserable creature, that gazed upon us, as we 
passed the cottage. But it is even so. That was Kitty Jansen. 
That desolate wilderness was the same, which my.poor friend Got- 
lieb once made to blossom like the rose. That abandoned dwelling 
was then the habitation of joy, and love, and peace, and prayer. 
In all my parish, — and my parishioners love me above my deserts, 
— I have nowhere been more kindly greeted than in that cottage. 
Whenever I came, and hov/ever they were occupied, all things were 
gladly sacrificed for the sake of a little conversation with their pas- 
tor. Gotlieb would leave his plough in the furrow, and the good 
wife would hasten from her dairy ; and even Kitty, though she never 
seemed to rely upon the only sure foundation, like her parents, 
would not suffer me to depart, withe \it an offering of her choicest 
fruit, or a bunch of her finest flowers By the aid of a mischievous 


KITTY GRAFTON. 1 1 

memory, it is all before me, for an instant — and now again it is 
gone. What a curse has fallen upon poor Clotlieb's little Lden ! — 
The simoom could not have wrought the work of destruction more 
effectually. 

There was living in Heathermead, when Kitty Jansen was about 
eighteen years of age, a young man, a farmer’s son, whose name 
was Ethan Grafton. He was a very capable and industrious young 
man. While his father cultivated a small hired farm, adjoining 
Jansen’s, Ethan availed himself of his proximity, and cultivated the 
affections of the old man’s daughter ; and it soon began to be whis- 
pered about, that young Ethan’s crop would be worth more than hia 
father’s, should they be successful in getting in their respective har- 
vests. Pamela Mickle said it never would be a match in the w orld ; 
and, after that, the most incredulous began to believe it. The pop- 
ular prophecy was correct ; and, in less than two years, Ethan 
Grafton wedded the beauty of Heathermead End ; upon which mem- 
orable occasion, poor Pamela Mickle laughed herself into a violent 
fit of hysterics. It was thought to be an excellent match. I cer- 
tainly thought so myself,” said my old master. “ Grafton w'as 
apparently an amiable man, and wonderfully popular in our village. 
He was active, and intelligent in his business ; and, under the 
instruction of such a teacher as Jansen, it was augured that he 
would, in time, become the most accomplished farmer in the county. 

“ Old Gotlieb and his wife had stipulated, that their only child 
should not leave them in their old age ; so Ethan married on, as we 
say, when a woman takes a husband, rather than a man a wife. 
For years, the happiness of this family appeared to be as complete, 
as any earthly thing can be. How often,” continued my old mas- 
ter, “ have I seen Gotlieb, of a summer evening, sitting on the green 
before his cottage door, with the good book open upon his knees, and 
surrounded by his little grandchildren ! — He was an even-tempered 
old man, and hfe whole life was free from every appearance of osten- 
tation. It is true, when his old friend and patron, the Quaker, 
came to visit him, as he did, once at least in every year, there was 
commonly, for a few days before his arrival, no little bustle and 
preparation, in the cottage at Heathermead End. The Quaker was 
a noble-looking old gentleman, arrayed in a suit of the finest broad- 
cloth, cut, to be sure, according to the fashion of the society of 
Friends, and of course without cape or supernumerary button. I 
never shall forget the magnificent pair of horses that he drove. 
They cost him, as Gotlieb said, one thousand dollars. I once asked 
old Jansen, what induced him to make such a parade for his Quaker 
(liond, particularly in the culinary part of ais arrangements. ‘ 


12 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


said Gotlieb, ‘ de old gentleman ish von of de kindest and pest men 
in de vuorld, and he ish temperate in his eating and drinking, but 
he like de roast duck vary veil, and he know ven he ish done to a 
turn.’ 

“ Gotlieb and Theresa Jaivien, his wife, w'ere stricken in years. 
There was nothing like morbid sensibility in the attachment of this 
couple, yet they were devoted to each other. They appeared to be 
governed by a sober conviction, that two heads and two hearts are 
better than one, when their efforts and their energies are concen^ 
trated. for the creation of a joint stock of ( omestic happiness. They 
were reasonable people, and understood aright the process, which 
God employs to wean his children from the present world ; they 
read volumes of wisdom in the storm and tempest, and found a 
meaning m the flickering cloud, as it takes somewhat from the 
splendor of the brightest mid-day ; they submitted with the confi- 
dence of devoted children to the discipline of their teacher ; and, 
when age and its wearisome retinue of cares and infirmities w'ere at 
hand, they were not compelled to make a hasty preparation for 
heaven. The tyrant and the usurper have occasionally worn their 
armor beneath their robes of state, in the spirit of fear : in another 
spirit, old Gotlieb and his worthy partner, however occupied, 
whether in their Sabbath ^clothes or working apparel, by day or by 
night, had worn their armor of righteousness upon the right hand 
and upon the left. — The old man had grown too infirm for the labors 
of the field, but I have seen him,” said my old master, “ of a spring 
morning, sitting upon the green bank, and looking down upon his 
goodly acres, with two or three of his grandchildren about him, 
while Ethan Grafton, his son-in-law, held the plough, and his old- 
est boy Elkanah, who was not over seven, rode the mare. No war- 
horse was ever fonder of the fields of his youth than old Gotlieb ; 
nor did the former ever turn his ear to the trumpet, moic eagerly 
than this old man to the first full drops of pattering rain, as tl ey fell, 
after a long interval of drought, upon the parching ground. 

“ One fine morning in May, old Gotlieb walked forth with little 
Elkanah, to whom he was particularly attached, taking his pocket 
Bible, as was his constant practice, to read upon the way. The 
old man used to say, that he loved most to woiship God in the 
fields, where he could have a full view of the works of his hands, 
and where he could gaze upw'ard, without anything of human crea- 
tion to obstruct his view. He returned much earlier than was his 
custom. Little Elkanah came first into the house, and brought the 
tidings, that his grandfather had been very fairt. — The good old 
wife received him at the door. He sat down in the stoop before 


Knry crafton. 


13 


the cottage ; and, as he gave her — it had been his custom for many 
years — the first branch that he could find of the dogwood in 
full flower, — ‘ Dat ish de last,’ said he with a faint smile. Old 
Theresa turned away, for an instant, to conceal her emotion. As 
she came back to him with a glass of water, ‘ Gotlieb,’ said she, 
‘ Kitty says the new rose, in the green-house, that you wished 
to see flower, is just coming out. The garden looks finely, this 
morning ; and, when you feel stronger, you and I will go and walk 
in it, Gotlieb.’ — The old man shook his head, as he placed both 
hands upon his heart. — They sent forme,” continued my old mas- 
ter. “ He was very low, when I arrived ; and the physician, wfjo 
had been previously summoned, proclaimed his end to be near. 
He said little. ‘ She tells me,’ said he, pointing to his wife, ‘ that 
we shall walk in the garden together : so we shall, but it will be in 
the garden of Eden.’ — After he had lost the power of speech, he 
drew Elkanah towards him, and put into the child’s bosom the little 
pocket Bible, v^hich had been the companion of their rambles. 

“ In two days after, this good old man yielded up his spirit. For 
many years, Theresa had cherished a strong hope, that they might 
be permitted to commence their heavenly walk together. This 
hope had operated upon her mind with such force, as to produce 
something like a belief, that it would be so. What there may 
be of philosophy in such matters — how far the force of a powerful 
and long-cherished presentiment may physically operate in the pro- 
duction of such results, I pretend not to comprehend. I have noth- 
ing to do, but with the fact. Good old Theresa performed the last 
offices of love ; she closed those eyes, that had never looked upon 
her but with affection. — The next morning she rose not as usual. 
When her daughter entered her chamber, her features were so per- 
fectly composed, that, at first, she seemed to be in peaceful slumber : 
— it was not thus — the corruptible was there, but the spirit had 
fled. During the still watches of the night, it had quitted its taber- 
nacle, and already commenced its passage with that of her husband 
to the garden of Eden, for a closer walk with her Saviour and her 
God. Their bodies were buried in the same grave.” 

When my old master had arrived at this point, he drew a heavy 
sigh. “ Ah,” said he, “it would be refreshing to rest here, but 
truth, however painful in its progress, presses us forward. — After the 
death of the old people, Ethan Grafton and his wife continued, for 
some time, to live happily together. Excepting in the ordinary 
allotments of Providence, it would have been a very difficult matter 
for a common observer, to have anticipated the cause, which should 
annihilate their happiness, or even deprive them of any material part 

roL. IT. 2 


14 


KITTY GRAFli . 


of it. Old Gotlieb had such unbounded confidence in the wisdoiF 
of his son-in-law, and in his affection for his daughter, that he gave 
hin his entire property by will. — When the old man planted an 
orchard, he probably no more imagined, that he was laying the foun- 
dation of the temple of discord, within the precincts of his peaceful 
cottage, than Noah supposed, when he planted a vineyard, that, by 
an abuse of its products, he should bring down the curse upon 
Canaan. But it fell out, in the course of time, that, as the patri- 
arch drank of the wine and was drunken, so Ethan Grafton’s incom- 
parable cider and perry were found abundantly capable of producing 
the same mischievous result. Gotlieb Jansen’s orchard had long 
been an object of universal remark. The old man had spared no 
pfins, in its culture and preservation. In the words of Bayley 
McGrudy, the Scotch schoolmaster, who taught the school in 
Heathermead, when displaying his library of two hundred and forty 
volumes, — ‘ There was nothing like it in all Heathermead.’ 
Ethan, as I have said, was a popular, and, of course, a very hospita- 
ble man. The quantity of cider, which he annually manufactured, 
was enormous, and its quality so very superior, as to insure a ready 
and extensive market. The liberality of old Gotlieb had made his 
son-in-law the sovereign master of many broad acres, a capital 
homestead, an excellent stock, and some ready money. When a 
young man, somewhat abruptly, steps into an estate, so entirely 
transcending his primitive aspirations, he is commonly liable to an 
epanchement du coeur^ an opening of the heart. No sooner was 
the legitimate period of mourning at an end, than Ethan Grafton 
began to invite his friends to come and see him. And, long before, 
there were not a few, who used to say, ‘ The Graftons must be verv 
lonely ; let us go and sit an hour or so with Ethan, and taste his 
cider.’ It must not be supposed, that Ethan Grafton’s cider was 
such miserable, vapid trash as is occasionally met with, upon the 
dinner tables of country taverns, whose employment sets the teeth 
on edge, and brings tears into the eyes, and deprives the human 
countenance, for the time, of all its rational proportions. There 
was no more resemblance than between the waters of Helicon and 
those of a washtub, or between nectar and the very smallest of small 
beer. Ethan Grafton’s far-famed cider, like the wine, so fatally 
administered by Ulysses to the Cyclop, was truly 

‘ Mellifluous, undecaying, and divine.’ 

He had a prodigious amount of cider ana perry in bottles, of differ- 
ent years, marked and numbered, and arranged with the greatest 
caie, cm their respective shelves, in his cellar. When he enter' 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


15 


tained his friends, and despatched little Elkanah for some particu- 
lar bottle, it was impossible to shut out the comparison, if it be 
lawful ^parvis componere magna,’ between the young farmer of 
Heathermead End, and some metropolitan entertainer, with his 
steward of the wine-cellar at his elbow, book in hand, ready, at a 
word, to proceed to any specified compartment, section, and range 
of the subterraneous treasure-house, and select the identical bottle, 
which the master requires. 

“ Certain it was, as Bayley McGrudy used shrewdly to remark, 
that, when the tears ceased to flow at Heathermead End, the cider 
began. Ethan used to boast that he had cider in his cellar, that 
was ^fuU as good as any wine.' Whether its effects were evidences 
of its goodness or badness, it became matter of demonstration, within 
a couple of years after old Gotlieb’s death, that it would produce 
drunkenness about as soon ; and that drunkenness, so produced, 
would as readily steal away the brains, and sour the temper, and 
blunt the kindlier affections of the heart. Ethan’s cider was certainly 
very much like Noah’s wine in its operation and effects. It soon 
began to manifest, in its influences, the truth of his assertion, that it 
was quite equal to wine; and, as the first domestic quarrel, after 
the flood, and the curse of Canaan were the almost immediate con 
sequences of drunkenness on wine, so the first harsh treatment, 
w’hich Gotlieb’s grandchildren received from their father, was a severe 
kick, bestowed upon little Elkanah, for selecting the wrong bottle 
of cider, while his father was endeavoring to prove to some young 
associates, the correctness of his frequently repeated assertion, that 
his cider was equal to wine. Poor Elkanah, who had become weary 
of his repeated embassies to the cellar, and was somewhat sleepy 
wdthal, had mistaken the direction, and produced a stale bottle from 
a range, which had proved worthless ; and, when Ethan, who was 
waiting for the applause of his guests, whose glasses he had filled, 
found himself repaid with shouts of laughter, and perceived the 
cause, he could not restrain his anger, highly excited as he was 
already, by the cider he had drunken. He dealt the poor child a 
terrible kick with his cowhide boot, and was in the act of stepping 
forward to repeat it. — At that moment, Kitty was stirring up the 
fire ; she had the tongs in her right hand. She marked the harsh- 
ness of her husband, and heard the cry of her favorite child ; in an 
instant she seized the boy’s arm with her left hand, and drew him 
behind her, out of the reach of her husband’s grasp ; at the same 
moment, she raised the tongs over her head, and, with a single but 
effectual sweep, cleared the table of its contents in the twinkling of 
•An eye ; bottles and glasses were broken to atoms upon the floor 


16 


imTY GRAFTON. 


The lontending parties stood, for a few seconds, fiercely eying 
each other. ‘ What do you mean by this?’ cried Ethan, in great 
anger. — ‘ You ’re a brute,’ replied the exasperated wife. — ‘ Dare 
you say this to me, in my own house ! I ’ll make you pay for it,’ 
cried he, holding up his finger. — ‘Your own house!’ she ex- 
claimed, with a look of ineffable derision. ‘ Has n't my father ])aid 
for it, already?’ she continued, with an expression of taunting bit- 
terness. — ‘You shall answer for this,’ cried Ethan, boiling over 
with anger, and stamping his foot upon the floor. — ‘I’ll never 
answer a drunkard,’ she exclaimed, as she hurled the tongs upon 
the hearth. — He stepped towards her in great wrath, but his com- 
panions interposed , and held him back, while his highly-exasperated 
wife walked slowly out of the room, leading off the terrified little 
Elkanah, who, never having witnessed such a scene before, was 
now made acquainted with a new code of sensations. Farmer 
Grafton’s friends pacified him, as well as they could, and took their 
leave. As they walked homeward, one of them observed that Ethan 
was in the wrong to kick the little boy as he did. That was readily 
admitted ; but anothei remarked, that he had as lief be one of Sam- 
son's foxes, as to have such a firebrand tied to him for life. A third 
suggested, that he did not believe there had ever been any serious 
disagreement between them before. All three agreed, however, 
that Ethan was entirely right in one particular, and that his cider 
was certainly etjual to wine. Pamela Mickle soon heard of the 
affair, and nearly wore out a pair of new shoes, in spreading intelli- 
gence of this domestic uproar from one end of Heathermead to the 
other. The match had turned out, as she affirmed, precisely as 
she expected from the very beginning. 

“The better sort of people in Heathermead, I mean not the 
wealthier, but the Christian aristocracy of the village, were grieved, 
that old Jansen’s descendants should be visited with any serious 
affliction. They had remarked, with regret, that Farmer Grafton 
was not so attentive to his business as he used to be, and that 
he was getting somewhat engaged in horse-racing. In regard 
to his wife, it was admitted, on all hands, that her temper was 
exceedingly violent, when excited by a sense of injustice ; but it 
was agreed, that it did not exhibit itself upon ordinary occasions. 
Indeed,” said my old master, “ Kitty Grafton had, not only a gen- 
erous, but a magnanimous spirit. She was an admirable house- 
wife, and devotedly attached to her husband, so long as he deserved 
her affection. With her, it was love for love : yet her affections 
were not governed by any selfish principle. There are gentle 
spirits, that can suffer all but death, and yet love on. I'here are 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


a 


n*)! a few, who still iove those barbarians, with whom marriage is 
a milder name for tyranny — they love and cling to the very brutes, 
tha-t rule them w'lth an iron rod, and why? — because they are the 
fathers of their children ! And, with such, this is cause enough 
why love should never die. There are some, who adhere to 
their drunken husbands, and seemingly with the same increasing 
measure of devotion, which they themselves bestow upon the vile 
objects of their idolatry. They love the very shadowy recollections 
of their brighter days ; and, while those heartless wretches, who led 
their confiding steps to the altar, yet crawl, like diseased and 
degraded reptiles, upon the earth, the doting affection of their fond 
hearts is sufficiently powerful to beget a moral ophthalmia, and they 
can perceive nothing to paralyze their love. The heart of Kitty 
Grafton was cast in a different mould ; and, though kind treatment 
would probably have preserved its affections, in all their original 
warmth and freshness, neglect could not fail to chill them through 
— abuse would certainly convert that heart to stone. 

“ By what process the reconciliation between Ethan and his wife 
was achieved, I cannot tell. They were at church the next Sab- 
bath ; their conduct towards each other was apparently civil and 
becoming ; but 1 thought it was not so affectionate as it had been. — 
When describing the Rhone and the Arve, an agreeable writer 
observes: '‘The contrast between those two rivers is very striking ; 
the one being as pure and limpid as the other is foul and muddy. 
Two miles below the place of their junction, an opposition and differ- 
ence between this ill-sorted couple are still observable ; these, however, 
gradually abate by long habit, till, at last, yielding to necessity, and 
those unrelenting laws that joined them together, they mix in perfect 
union, and flow in a ‘common stream to the end of their course.'* 
But for these unrelenting laws, how many ill-fated alliances would 
be severed ! How many wretched beings would delight to break 
away from their loathsome, drunken yoke-fellows! Kitty Grafton 
had no ordinary share of pride withal; and, next to being happy, 
came the desire of being thought so. For a time, she bore her 
afflictions in silence. If Ethan was more from home than formerly, 
she consoled herself with her children, and filled her time and hei 
thoughts with her domestic concerns. Her little green-house and 
garden, in the care and cultivation of which, she had been abun- 
dantly instructed by her good old father and mother, still afforded her 
a source of rational satisfaction ; and, could, she have been permitted 
to enjoy them, and to see her children rising into life, with a rea- 


* Moore’s View of Society in France, &c., Vol. I., Let. 24. 
VOL. II. 2* 


18 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


sonable prospect of happiness, she might have lived on contented, 
though not absolutely happy , and accommodated herself to her lot, 
as the wife oi a drinking, prodigal husband — for to this degrading 
appellation Ethan Grafton now bid fair to establish an indisputable 
claim. 

“ Among his acquaintances, there were some, who were not 
entirely willing to allow, that Ethan’s cider was equal to wine; and, 
after a fair trial at the Little Black Dragon, a tavern in Heather- 
mead, upon thanksgiving night, (on which occasion, the judges 
were so drunk, that it was impossible to obtain anything like a 
righteous decision of the question,) it was determined to continue the 
matter, for further advisement, at Ethan Grafton’s cottag(q upon the 
ensuing Christmas eve. 

“ In the course of those unprofitable years, which had followed 
one another, like billows upon the ocean, since old Jansen died, 
Ethan Grafton had frittered away the estate in an unaccountable 
manner. Under the old man’s will, the fee, or full property of the 
estate, was in himself ; and his wife had no other claim upon the 
soil, which her father had won by the sweat of his brow, than her 
right of dower. Even this partial interest, Ethan had induced her, 
upon various pretences, to relinquish, from time to time, until it 
remained to her in the cottage only, and a few acres around it. The 
ready money, which old Jansen had left, had begun, after six or 
eight months from his decease, to disappear. The stock, in the 
course of a few years, were either sold, or had died off ; and, as 
Ethan neglected his farm, their places were not supplied. In about 
seven years after Jansen’s death, although there was some show of 
property, and the stock of cider was still kept up, (for the apples 
grew without culture, and it cost little to grind them,) yet it was 
pretty well understood, that Ethan Grafton, to use the village 
phrase, was getting dreadfully down to heel. It would have been 
better for Ethan, if the real extent of the small residuum of estate, 
that he yet possessed, had been more clearly defined, in the eyes 
of his neighbors. But he was still supposed to be a man of prop- 
erty, though his affairs had, somehow or another, become embar- 
rassed. He accordingly, on the strength of this delusion, continued 
in tolerable credit ; and was able, now and then, with a little swag- 
gering, to borrow a few hundreds ; and thus, by increasing the 
burden upon his already broken shoulders, to complete the work of 
his destruction. For one, that knew how much of Ethan’s property 
was deeply mortgaged, and how little was clear, hundreds in the 
village of Heathermead were entirely unacquainted with the facts. 
He still, like most other mortgagors, was himself in possession, 


KITTY QRAtTON. 


19 


exercising^ visible acts of ownership over the property. How often 
do we witness the evil consequences of such a condition of things as 
this ! The man, who frequently reiterates a lie, is not more liable, 
at last, to fancy it is true, than the proprietor of mortgaged premises 
to believe they are his own. How frequently such estates are 
found, after the death of such nominal proprietors, inadequate to 
pay the debt, for whose security they were conveyed ! Yet how 
frequently is it the fact, that such nominal owners of estates, such 
hona fide proprietors of nothing, have eaten, and drunken, and 
arrayed themselves, for years, upon the strength of this imaginary 
wealth ! Poor Ethan Grafton actually believed himself, even then, 
to be a man of considerable property ; and employed no small part 
of his time, — when not occupied in the demonstration of his ever- 
lasting problem, that his cider was equal to wine, — in unsuccessful 
efforts to obtain additional loans, upon his overburdened estates. 

“ It was long a mystery, in the eyes of those, who really knew 
that Ethan Grafton had deprived himself of three fourths, at least, 
of all his estate, by what means he had squandered his possessions. 
The secret was well known to a few. Neglect of his business 
readily accounted for his not growing richer. Horse-racing, betting, 
and drinking had undoubtedly diminished his property, in a very 
sensible degree. Still, however, the rapid loss of his wealth, 
especially during the two last years, was an enigma, which the 
wiseacres of Heathermead were utterly unable to explain. 

“ As the destruction of the outer works is commonly among the 
earliest operations of an enemy, so the first manifestations of the 
power of that evil demon, which warred against the peace of this 
once happy family, were the fallen fences, and dilapidated walls, 
and broken windows, about the cottage at Heathermead End 
Kitty had long found it extremely difficult to obtain money from hei 
husband, for the common occasions of herself and her children. 
Debts accumulated rapidly, and duns became importunate and 
troublesome. One morning, Ethan had just finished his breakfast, 
of which a portentous pitcher of cider formed a component part, 
when he perceived Mr. Bagley, the grocer, riding towards the 
cottage. Ethan comprehended his object, and concealed himself in 
the cellar, previously directing Elkanah, whose mother had stepped 
out, to say, that he was not at home. Old Gotlieb had not read the 
Bible to his grandchild in vain. To the grocer’s inquiry, the boy 
therefore replied, that his father had told him to say he was not at 
home. This, of course, produced an unpleasant eclaircissement ; 
and, when the grocer had gone, Elkanah received a buffet, which 
brought him to the ground. This broken-spirited boy, who had 


20 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


repeatedly witnessed the dreadful uproar, which arose between hii 
parents, in consequence of his complaints, suffered in silence, and 
crept, for refuge, to the garret. 

“ Notwithstanding the immense quantity of cider, which Ethan’s 
farm produced, of which he sold a large amount, in barrels and bot- 
tles, he never seemed to have any ready money ; and, whenever his 
wife attempted to get an insight into his affairs, he told her that 
women were fools, and knew nothing of business. They had, at 
this time, one girl and four boys ; and their mother, though fre- 
quently exasperated by her husband, still regained her maternal 
feelings, and patched and repatched the ragged remnants of their 
.ittle apparel ; and, as yet, though hopeless of their father, gave not 
all up for lost. Ethan Grafton had, for some time, delivered large 
quantities of his cider at the distillery ; and, of late, he had been in 
the habit of receiving a few barrels of cider brandy, in part pay- 
ment. For more than a year, he had suffered severely from the 
operation upon his system of that malic acid, which abounds in 
cider, and whose effects are perfectly well understood by medical 
men. He had become habitually subject to severe colic ; he had 
even indicated no equivocal symptoms of partial palsy. But he 
began to feel essentially better, from the occasional employment of 
the cider brandy. Christmas eve was drawing nigh, upon which 
occasion the question was to be fully settled and determined, 
whether Ethan Grafton’s cider were or were not equal to wine; and, 
as he was determined to establish its reputation beyond the possi- 
bility of all future doubt, — having selected the bottles which he 
designed to produce, he abstracted thirty-three and a third per cen- 
tum of their contents, and then filled up the bottles with an equal 
amount of cider brandy. 

“ When old Gotlieb Jansen perceived himself to be surrounded 
by a little progeny of the second generation, he introduced into the 
cottage at Heathermead End a custom, associated with his boyish 
recollections of ‘ Fader Land,’ on the borders of the Rhine. A 
small tree, commonly the box, in its pot of earth, was introduced 
into the best room of the cottage, upon merry Christmas eve ; and 
the old man, with the assistance of Theresa, scattered some gold 
leaf upon its deep green foliage, and attached to its branches those 
little presents, which were designed for their grandchildren. These 
annual arrangements had been, for years, a source of heartfelt satis- 
faction to Gotlieb and his wife ; and to their youthful descendants 
an object of delightful anticipation. After the death of her parents, 
Kitty Grafton had never omitted the custom, upon the returx of this 
happy festival. The golden tree had never failed, once in every 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


21 


year, at the appointed time, to spread its luxuriant branches ; and 
their little ones, happy, at least for a brief season, had been per- 
mitted to approach in order, and, with their own hands, to gather 
its valuable fruit. Hitherto, Ethan himself had appeared to feel 
some degree of interest on these occasions ; and, although with 
increasing indifference to the happiness of his children from year to 
year, he had commonly contributed a small sum for the purchase of 
those toys, which were essential to their short-lived carnival, upon 
Christmas eve. — Upon the present occasion, Kitty’s suggestions 
and hints were of no avail. Ethan turned a deaf ear to them all ; 
and, to her direct request for a very trifling sum, to purchase the 
means of happiness for the children upon this occasion, he replied, 
with great harshness, that he had not a shilling; and knew not 
where to get one ; and that it was a stupid, German custom, and had 
lasted long enough ; and that he wculd hear no more of it. Though 
highly offended by Ethan’s answer, which contained something like 
a reflection on her parents, she, for once, restrained her temper, and 
walked silently away. Her husband, probably, would not have 
opposed her wishes, and denied his children these long-expected 
pleasures, which came but once a year, had he not made an impor- 
tant engagement for that very evening. He well knew, that more 
than a dozen of his associates were then to assemble in his cottage, 
for an object of no less importance, than the decision of a question, 
in which his feelings had become deeply involved — whether Ethan 
Grafton’s cider were equal to wine. His best apartment would be 
required for the use of this convention , and Elkanah’s services wQuld 
be indispensable. But of all this his wife suspected nothing. We 
are not prone to call those to participate in our privy counsels, who 
are well known to be heartily opposed to our practice and our prin- 
ciples ; and, it is a mere act of justice to state, that, however excit- 
able and violent, the temper of Kitty Grafton received no adscititious 
stimulus from any intoxicating liquor. No pledged member of a 
thoroughgoing cold-water society ever abstained more rigidly from 
all inebriating drinks. The occasional flashings of her natural fire 
were said, by those, who bad witnessed them, to be sufficiently 
alarming — the stimulus of alcohol would probably have driven her, 
sooner or later, during her domestic troubles, to madness or to 
murder. 

“ When her husband had thus refused to assist her, in furnishing 
out the Christmas festival for their children, she went up into her 
chamber, and sat down with her arms folded, and an angry cloud 
upon her brow. She had not continued long, ruminating upon her 
misfortunes, (for every new affliction naturally served to revive the 


22 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


gloomy record of the past,) when Elkanah, who had been present 
during the conversation between his parents, crept up into the apart 
ment. — ‘ Mother,’ said he, ‘I wouldn’t be worried about it; we 
can have our tree just as well as we had it last year.’ — She gazed 
upon her first-born ; — her features, for an instant, changed their 
expression of anger for that of sadness ; and her eyeballs were glazed 
by the gathering tears, which oozed from the natural fountain too 
scantily to fall ; like the moisture, which occasionally floats over the 
brassy sky, during the burning solstice, but descends not in shcw- 
ers, and is speedily absorbed. ‘You can have your tree, Elkanah,’ 
she replied, ‘ that your poor old grandfather took so much pleasure 
to prepare for you, and whose leaves he tipped with gold leaf. 
That is in my closet ; but I have nothing to hang upon it for you 
all, as I used to have.’ — ‘ Never mind, mother,’ said Elkanah, ‘ we 
can do very well ; Richard has got his hum-top that he had last 
year, just as good as ever ; and Rachel has got her doll ; Eli says 
he will hang up his whistle ; and, before to-morrow night, I can 
whittle out a go-cart for Robert.’ — ‘ And what will you have to 
hang up for yourself, Elkanah V inquired his mother ; she seemed, 
for a brief space, to forget her misery, while listening to Elkanah’s 
ingenious device for the celebration of the festival. A faint ray of 
sunlight beamed upon her features, as she contemplated the con- 
tented disposition of her child, who could thus volunteer to be suffi- 
ciently happy in the enjoyment of second-hand pleasures. — ‘ And 
what,’ she repeated, ‘ will you hang upon the tree for yourself, 
Eljcanah V — ‘I ’ve been thinking, mother,’ said he, ‘ that I should 
like to hang up the Bible that grandfather gave me.’ 

“ Christmas eve at length arrived. The tree had been placed in 
the centre of their bettermost room, its appointed place upon such 
occasions, for many years ; and already its branches bent beneath 
the burden, in part, of its last year’s fruit. Kitty Grafton, sur- 
rounded by her five children, who were resolved to be happy, upon 
any terms, was busily engaged in directing the simple ceremonials 
of the fUe. Her countenance had even lost that expression of bit- 
terness and anxiety, which, of late years, had predominated there. 
The strength of the maternal principle had subdued all foreign rec- 
ollections for the time. The almost unvarying custom of her hus- 
band to return, of late years, at an advanced hour of the night, had 
relieved her entirely from all fear of interruption. The sound 
therefore, of his well-known tramp, on the entry floor, filled the 
assembled group with consternation. Even the mother became pale 
for an instani. Her husband’s voice, calling loudly for Elkanah, 
summoned the poor boy from the apartment. In a short time he 


KITTY GRAFTOxN. 


23 


returned with his father, bringings in as many bottles of cider, as 
they could conveniently carry. No sooner did Ethan discover the 
preparations for the festival, and the tree in the midst, than he 
inquire 1, with a terrible oath, addressing himself to his w'ife, who 
had risen from her seat, if he had not told her that he would have 
no more of such German trumpery in his house. — ‘ Haven’t I a 
right,’ said she, as the color mantled into her face, — ‘ have n’t I a 
right, in my old father’s house, to make his grandchildren happy?' 

— ‘Your old father,’ said he, ‘ was an old German beggar.’ — 
‘ You are a liar,’ she quickly replied, as she clenched her fist, and her 
eyes shot fire. — Ethan hastily put his bottles on the floor, and all the 
children but Elkanah ran screaming in terror from the apartment. 

— ‘ There,’ said he, with another horrible oath, breaking the tree to 
pieces, and hurling the little tokens in every direction — ‘ that ’s to 
begin with, and now, if you give me another saucy word, I ’ll whip 
you to a jelly.’ — During this ebullition of wrath, Elkanah, unper- 
ceived by his father, bad picked up his little Bible, and concealed it 
in his bosom. — ‘ O, father,’ cried the agonized child, ‘beat me, 
father ; I did it ; don’t beat poor mother.’ — ‘ Get out, you ill-begot- 
ten brat,’ cried the infuriated father. — ‘ Grafton,’ exclaimed his 
wife, with an expression of mingled rage and scorn, ‘ I wish I was 
a man for five seconds, I ’d strip your tawny hide from neck to 
heel!’ — ‘Father, father,’ cried Elkanah, ‘look up the road; 
there’s folks coming.’ — ‘I see ’em,’ said Ethan Grafton to the 
boy ; ‘ clear off this rubbish right away, and set out the table ; and 
as for you,’ turning to his wife, ‘ if I was n’t agoing to have com- 
pany, I ’d jest cut a saplin, and strip you to the skin, and tie you up 
by your two thumbs, and, if I didn’t cool your German blood for 
you, my name ’s not Ethan Grafton.’ — ‘ Grafton,’ she replied, in a 
steadier tone, moving slowly towards the door, ‘ I ’m glad to be 
gone from you and your gang. There ’ll be time enough to cut 
your saplin when they ’re gone ; but, if you lay the weight of it on 
my body, I 'll die in the struggle but I ’ll have your heart’s blood.’ 

— The guests were at the door ; Ethan had no time to reply ; and he 
bit his lip, and doubled his fist at his enraged wife, as she proceeded 
up stairs. Elkanah had cleared the room, and set out the table, and 
stood trembling in the corner, awaiting his father’s commands. 

“ After such vulgar greetings, and horse laughs, and slappings of 
shoulders, as commonly mark the first gathering of a rustic club, 
the company assembled around the table, upon which Elkanah had 
been directed to place several bottles of cider and a sufficient num- 
ber of glasses. It would be an unprofitable task to attempt a de- 
■criptioii of those individuals^ who were convened in Ethan’s cottage, 


24 


KITTY ORAFTUN 


for the purpose of settling the ‘ cider question.’ Next to Dick 
Dagget, the butcher, who had relinquished business, and retired 
upon a handsome reserve, after cheating his creditors out of seven 
eighths of their lawful demands, the most important personage was 
Dr. Pullet, a rubicund, full-favored, notable blackleg, who had a 
local habitation and a name, in many towns and villages, in which 
he had exercised his skill, by filching the unwary of their cash in 
hand ; and, if it better comported with the convenience of his cul- 
lies, the doctor was exceedingly accommodating, and would try a 
rubber, for almost any stake, from a stout gelding to a gooseberry 
tart. The residue of the group consisted chiefly of young farmers 
and mechanics, who had long shown a preference for Ethan Graf- 
ton’s cider, before the pleasures of their own firesides. — ‘ What ’s 
the matter, Grafton?’ inquired one of the company, soon after they 
were seated ; ‘ you look down in the mouth.’ — ‘ O, no great affair,’ 
replied Ethan, scratching his head, — ‘ Elky, my boy, fetch the 
corkscrew.’ — ‘ I guess he’s thinking about the cattle that Pullet 
won of him last night, at the Little Black Dragon,’ said one of these 
boors, with a reckless laugh. — ‘ I hope a little matter like that 
don’t trouble ye, Mr. Grafton,’ said Pullet. — ‘ The dogs take the 
cattle,’ replied Ethan ; ‘ if a body had n’t nothing more to be vexed 
about than the loss of a yoke of oxen, he ’d be pretty well off, I 
reckon — there, tell us what ye think o’ that,’ filling their glasses 
and pushing them round. — ‘That’s royal cider, Grafton,’ cried 
Dagget, smacking his lips. ‘ But, for pity’s sake, tell us whose 
grave you ’re agoing to dig to-night? you ’re as solemn as an owl, 
Ethan; what’s the matter?’ — ‘Why,’ said Grafton, ‘there’s a 
skillinton, you know, in every house.’ — ‘ Ha, ha ! that ’s it, is it?’ 
cried Dagget ; ‘ the old black mare kicks up, does she, Ethan? why 
don’t ye switch the jade as I do mine ?’ — ‘ That ’s well enough for 
you, Dick,’ Ethan replied, ‘ but it won’t work quite so well with 
the German breed, I tell ye. I shall have to try it though, I guess, 
afore long. — But let ’s hear what ye think o’ that cider.’ — ‘Why, 
Mr. Grafton,’ said Pullet, pouring out a fresh tumbler, ‘ this is 
super-excellent cider.; there can be no better ; but, upon honor, it 
isn’t quite ecjual to wine.' — ‘ That ’s all you know about it,’ cried 
Ethan. ‘ You ’re up to cut and shuffle, doctor ; but I would n’t say 
much about cider an I was you. This here, that you ’ve been a 
drinking, is n’t such super-excellent cider arter all. The old man. 
Jar sen, made this, more than ten yeais ago, and it ’s lost its strength, 
and g,t a leetle flattish; if you should drink a barrel on ’t, you 
wouldn’t feel a mite brisker.’ — ‘I don’t know about that,’ said 
one of the company, ‘ I ’se drank only two tumblers and a half. 


miTY QRAFT0N. 


25 


and it makes? me feel pretty comical any how.’ — ‘I’ll show ye 
cider,’ said Ethan. ‘ Elky — here — Elkanah — where ’s that brat 
gone V — ‘ He ’s asleep,’ said one of the guests. — ‘ Wake up, you 
lazy dog,’ cried Ethan, as he pulled him violently by the ear, 
‘ wake up, sir, and, if I catch ye sleeping agin, I ’ll give ye some- 
thing to keep ye awake, I ’ll warrant ye ; here, take a basket, and 
bring up ten bottles from the lower shelf, and if you bring the wrong 
ones, I ’ll take both your ears off.’ — Elkanah rubbed his eyes on 
the sleeve of his coat, and proceeded to the cellar. — ‘ What do 
you value your gray mare at, Mr. Grafton?’ inquired Doctor Pul- 
let. — ‘ My gray mare,’ replied Ethan, ‘ why somewhere ’twixt one 
and two hundred.’ — ‘Well,’ continued the doctor, ‘I don’t alto- 
gether want to take away that yoke of cattle, that I won from you, 
at the Dragon, without giving ye a chance to win ’em back ; I ’ll 
put ’em agin your gray maie, and try another rubber.’ — ‘ Done,’ 
cried Ethan Grafton, slapping the table as he spoke ; ‘ but here 
comes my snail of a boy ; let ’s try the cider first — what made ye 
so etarnal long, ye lazy brat?’ — ‘I come as quick as I could, 
father,’ said Elkanah. — ‘ Ye lie, ye did n’t ; get into the corner, 
till I call ye,’ said Ethan, shoving him aside. — ‘There, tell us 
what ye think of that,’ said he, as he poured out the new specimen. 

— ‘ That caps all,’ cried Dagget, as he held out his empty glass to 
be replenished, ‘ that goes to the right spot any how.’ — ‘ The best 
cider I ever tasted by all odds,’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘ Still I ’ll 
tell ye what, — there seems to be a — sort of a — want of a — kind 
of a — ’ ‘Haw, haw, haw,’ cried half a dozen voices. ‘It’s 
pretty good cider I guess,’ said Gibbins, the journeyman tailor, ‘ for 
it makes your tongue take plaguey long stitches, doctor.’ — ‘I 
sha’n't cabbage any on it, Gibbins,’ cried the doctor rather angrily. 

— ‘ Don’t spose ye will,’ replied Gibbins, with a sneer : ‘ how ’s your 
patient, doctor, that I saw you a physicking this morning ?’ — ‘I 
don't know what patient you mean,’ replied the doctor gruffly. — 
* Why, don’t you remember?’ said Gibbins, suppressing an ill- 
natured laugh; ‘I mean Deacon Lumkins’ jackass.’ — This was 
tot) much, before such respectable company, even for a horse-doctor, 
and Pullet threw a whole glass of this admirable cider in the jour- 
neyman, tailor's face, who, having nothing in his tumbler, wherewith 
to return the compliment, hurled the vessel itself at the head of his 
antagonist. — For five and twenty minutes, the bettermost room in the 
cottage at Heathermead End was a scene of the most ungovernable 
uproar. Dagget, the butcher, held back the doctor, who had whipped 
out his fleam from its leathern sheath, and with the most frightful 
imprecations was rushing forward to bury it in the tailor’s jugular. 

VOL. II 3 


26 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


— ‘ Don’t hold him, Dagget,’ cried the little journeyman ; ‘ let him 
come on, if he wants to , and, if I don’t take his measure, my name 
is n’t Billy Giboins.’ — There can be little doubt, if Dagget’s strength 
had not restrained the doctoj from close contact with his adversary, 
that the tailor would have cu: out for him, in horrible style. For, 
though excited by the cider, he was comparatively self-possessed, 
and, happening to have his shears in his side-pocket, he had grasped 
them firmly with both hands, and, dropping on one knee, after the 
fashion of the middle rank, during the formation of a defensive hollow 
square, he would have awaited the doctor’s charge, and, in all human 
probability, have received him on the point of his professional bayonet. 

“ After a deal of soothing and persuasion, the contending parties 
were induced to make the matter up. The tailor admitted, that he 
did not intend to disparage either of the learned professions ; the 
doctor affirmed, that he considered Mr. Gibbins as respectable a 
tailor, as he did, before their unpleasant difference ; and the com- 
pany once more resumed their seats around the table. — Dagget, 
who really appeared disposed to act as a peacemaker, upon the 
present occasion, readily perceived that the reconciliation was not 
precisely complete ; and endeavored, while Ethan pushed the bottle, 
to revive the spirit of good-fellowship among the guests. ‘ I raally 
love cider,’ said he, as he turned off another glass. ‘ I guess I could 
get along without water ; I should miss cider though, dreadfully. 
But I ’ll tell ye what it is, it ’s the beatemost stuff that ever was, to 
make a body feel crusty. There ’s old Miss Belcher, my wife’s 
mother, you never see how it acts on her ; two tumblers o’ good 
ripe’cider ’ll make the old woman as good-natured as a puppy-dog, 
and she ’ll think the children can’t have half enough mince-pie and 
apple-dowdy ; when she takes about four, she ’ll be as funny as all 
possessed ; but, when she gets six full tumblers under her skin, 
then look out for’t, I tell ye. The steam’s pretty well up then, 
and there ’s no safety-valve but the old woman’s mouth. She ’s lost 
her teeth, you know, and she does sizzle and sputter away like a 
fury. She knocks the children about like nothing, and gives nobcdy 
no peace, till she ’s slept it all off next morning. I ax’d McGrudy, 
the schoolmaster, who knows a’ most everything, what he thought 
was the reason why cider made folks crosser than any other drink, 
£nd he gi’ed me a queer answer to be sure : said he, “ If the ould 
apple o’ discord brought sin into the warld in the beginning, is n’t 
the juice o’ it enow to kaap up a clisli-maclaver to the dee o’ judg- 
ment, mon ’ — The guests laughed heartily at Dagget’s humorous 
remarks, with the exception of the doctor and the tai'or. Their 
gorges were evidently still up. Each sat, with a cigar in his 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


27 


month, his chair inclined backward, and his chin pointed towards the 
ceiling. — Dagget, who had really a great respect for the doctor, 
was not thus to be baffled, in his efforts to restore harmony. ‘ Doc- 
tor,’ said he, ‘ what is the reason, that, while beer makes a body 
sleepy, cider is such a cross kind of a drink?’ — ‘ It ’s owing to the 
digestion,’ replied the doctor ; ‘ it produces a sort of pulmonary 
combustibility in the most vitalest parts.’ — The tailor cut his eye at 
Ethan Grafton, with a half-drunken, half-comical expression, as he 
filled his tumbler- — Dagget, who had ever looked upon the longest 
words as the outward and visible signs of the greatest learning, was, 
for a moment, silent. ‘ Dr. Pullet,’ said he, after a brief pause, ‘ I 
wonder you confine your practice entirely to horses.’ — ‘Oh, sir,’ 
replied the doctor, ‘ the other branches of our profession is over- 
stocked. It is an easy matter to attend to the diseases of the human 
race. They can tell their complaints, Mr. Dagget. I have always 
devoted myself to the noble animal, sir ; but I believe I must go, 
Mr. Grafton.’ — ‘ Oh, no,’ said Ethan, ‘ you have n’t tasted my best 
cider yet, by a chalk and a half.’ The doctor, however, insisted on 
the necessity of his departure, as he was to meet a few friends, that 
evening, at the Little Black Dragon ; he promised, however, to 
recollect the rubber, which he had engaged to play with Ethan 
Grafton, upon a stake of a yoke of oxen against the gray mare. — 
‘ The doctor ’s a man o’ great laming,’ said Dagget, after he had 
gone. — ‘He’s an ignorant ramus,’ said the tailor. — ‘ Gibbins, 
you’re no judge,’ cried Dagget, somewhat nettled. — ‘A tailor’s 
about as good a judge as a butcher,’ retorted Gibbins. — ‘ I see you 
want to quarrel with me,’ replied Dagget, ‘though I saved your 
bones from being broken just now.’ — ‘Come, come, don’t let’s 
have any more o’ this tarnal gabble,’ exclaimed Ethan, in a roaring 
voice, ‘ finish this cider, and let ’s have another lot. As to the doc- 
tor’s laming, I ’m no great shakes of a judge myself, but he has a 
sort of a pleasant, winning way with him.’ — ‘ So he has,’ replied 
the tailor dr3dy, ‘ if you ’ll let him cut and shuffle himself. He won 
your oxen, Ethan, and your great white horse, slick enough; and 
he ’s won more money of you them ’ — ‘ Do hold your tongue, Gib- 
bins,’ exclaimed Ethan, getting rather angry, and nodding his head 
in the direction of his boy ; ‘ there *s no need o’ telling everything 
to the town-crier. — Here, you sir, Elkanah, if you tell a word you 
hear in this here room, I ’ll skin ye alive.’ — ‘ I won’t, father, said 
the trembling boy. — It was at this stage of the trial, that some of 
the junior judges, at the further end of the table, whose voices had 
not been heard before, above concert pitch, began to be rather up 
roorious. The removal of a great man from an assembly, whose 


28 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


presence has been somewhat oppressive, will occ^ionally liberate 
inferior spirits from their thraldom. Such was the obvious effect 
of the doctor's departure. The confusion of voices began to be 
immense. No one cared a fig to understand his neighbor, and every 
one strove, by elevating his own voice, to drown the voices of all 
others, and to be heard alone. It is impossible to produce anything 
like a faithful d-^scription of the scene. Here were ten or a dozen 
speakers, every one more or less excited by his potations of Ethan's 
cider, and each in his own way ; with some, anger prevailed ; with 
others, pride ; and with others, simple good-nature and a feeling of 
mawkish philanthropy. The continual strife of tongues begat the 
most unintelligible jargon ; words ran foul of one another in every 
direction ; sentences were dislocated, and parts became strangely 
dovetailed together in the oddest of all imaginable connections. Of 
the little that was meant almost nothing was understood. The 
absurdity of the scene must have been surprisingly heightened, by 
the wildest gesticulations ; every vessel occasionally dancing on the 
table, as the speakers gave it a tremendous slap by way of enforcing 
their remarks ; and, now and then, there might be heard the crash 
of broken bottles, shattered for sport, or by way of testing their 

relative strength. ‘I’ve drank wine in my time, I reckon, as 

well as yourself,’ cried a dapper little fellow. — Pshaw! that last 
bottle was a — Holloa — When I sold meat, I always used to favor 
the poor — No great shakes neither — I '11 bate ye a dollar — ’T isn't 
in the like o’ you — That are colt will go — Sir, nobody pitches me 
on the point o’ rationality — I feel for the poor — Fill your glasses, 
my boys, and let ’s see if this here cider is n't equal to — Fire and 
fury, I got the burning eend o’ my cigar right into my mouth — 
Wouldn’t give the vally o’ my bodkin for all he knows about — 
My old mare ’s able to — Slam bang — There she goes — Crash — 
Haw, haw — Crash — More bottles I say — Last town-meeting day 
I — Hold your yop — I won’t — It ’s a lie, that 's fiat — I say as 1 
said afore, he ’s an ignorant ramus — If you say — Come, fill your 
glasses — That’s what you sha’n’t — Say it agin, and I ’ll run my 
fist down your — I say he ’s an ignorant ra — Whack — Crack — 
Take that — Take care, Dagget ; he ’s got his shears out — I don’t 

care the vally of a sausage for his — Crack, crack, w'hack. 

Over went the table, lights, and glasses. The butcher and the tailor 

were in a moment rolling on the fioor. Take aw^ay the villain’s 

shears — I’ve got ’em — Pull ’em apart — No, no; let ’em fight it 
out — Peg him well, Dagget — It 's a tarnal shame — There comes 
the claret — Cry enough, Gibbins, or you ’ll never take another stitch 
in this world — Gie me my shears — I won’t — Well, enough, then. 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


29 


At this stage of the performances, Ethan had seized Elkanah, 

who had fallen asleep, notwithstanding this uproar, for it was now 
late at night. The boy screamed aloud, under the severe buffets of 
his drunken father — the door, at that instant, flew open, — Kitty 
Grafton i ashed into the apartment, and, seizing Ethan by his shaggy 
black hair, hurled him to the ground. It was the work of a mo- 
ment. Disabled as he was by drunkenness, he rose for a last effort ; 
and, grasping a junk bottle, he gave her a terrible blow upon the 
side of her head. She fell immediately upon the floor, and the bl wkI 
spirted copiously from the wound. Elkanah had rushed into the 
road, crying murder ; and the inhabitants of the nearest cottage soon 
hurried to the spot. It w^as at first supposed, that the blow had 
proved fatal ; but, after half an hour, the poor woman uttered a 
groan, and gradually recovered her senses. Even this brutal hus- 
band seemed to be shocked, by the contemplation of his own near 
approach to the gallows ; and, for a whole week, he abstained from 
intoxicating drink. On the first day after this event, he even labored 
diligently in the field ; and, when he came home at night, Elkanah ran 
to his mother iu amazement, as she lay upon her sick bed, exclaim- 
ing, ‘ Oh, mother, only think, father has come home, and he isn’t 
diunk in the least.’ — After this terrible catastrophe, the company 
dispersed with all possible expedition ; and, the next day, when they 
had slept off the effects of their debauch, they agreed, with the most 
perfect unanimity, that Ethan Grafton’s cider was equal to wine. 

“ During the drunken festival of the preceding night, Ethan Graf- 
ton had not found it necessary, for the purpose of maintaining the 
reputation of his cider, and establishing his boast, in its fullest 
extent, that it was equal to ivine, to employ his choice reserve. The 
bottles, whose contents he had enforced with cider brandy, remained 
untasted in his cellar. Good ripe cider, containing from seven to 
ten per cent, of alcohol, was enough for the work. During the 
week, which immediately followed this domestic outrage, Ethan, 
who really appeared to show some tokens of compunction, remained 
at home, or upon the farm. A parishioner,” said my old master, 
“ gave me the first tidings of the affair. Neither Ethan nor his wife 
was at meeting, on the following Sabbath. In the morning and 
afternoon Elkanah occupied the pew, by himself. I had long re- 
marked the melancholy expression upon the features of this broken- 
spirited boy. Upon the present occasion, I was particularly struck 
with it. I had preached on the subject of prayer, as essential to 
domestic happiness. After the service, he lingered near me for 
some time. I inquired if he wished to speak with me. He seemed 
exceedingly embarrassed, and the tears came into bis eyes. I asked 

VOL. II. 3 * 


30 


KITTY. GRAFTON. 


him aside what he desired of me : he replied, that he w ished me to 
pray for his father and mother, for they did n’t love each other. I 
inquired if anything had happened : he replied, ‘ Yes, sir, but I 
have promised father, that I would not tell.’ — I then informed him, 
that I knew the whole, and should surely pray for them all ; and 
the little fellow seemed to be comforted. 

“ The next morning, I went to their cottage, and did my best. It 
was a hard case. Old Gotlieb had often regretted, that Kitty took 
no interest in her Bible. Religious sentiments had never taken root 
in the heart of this poor woman, nor in that of her husband ; and 
the present stubborn condition of the soil presented little hope of 
success in the cultivation of such exotics. _ I visited them very often, 
but it was a vain attempt. Each avoided me at last, much in the 
same manner as I have told you Ethan avoided the grocer, who 
came for the amount of his bill. When I first called, after the 
uproar of Christmas eve, Elkanah came running to meet me, at 
some distance from the cottage, begging me, wuth an expression of 
alarm, not to tell his father, that he had asked me to pray for them. 
Grafton received me civilly, and seemed to be somewhat ashamed 
of his conduct ; but he had already recommenced his vile practices. 
As I entered, he was coming up from the cellar, wiping his mouth 
upon his sleeve, and had apparently been once more at his cider. 1 
desired to see them together ; and, with evident reluctance, he 
show^ed me up stairs. Kitty was lying on her bed, with a hand- 
kerchief bound over her forehead. When she saw me, ‘ I ’m glad 
you’ve come, Mr. More,’ said she. — For a moment, I hoped I 
might be useful, but soon found myself mistaken, when I comp re 
bended her motive. ‘ I ’m glad you’ve come,’ she continued, ‘to 
see how this villain has used me : you was a friend of my old father 
and mother. What would they have said to this ! Look here, Mr. 
More,’ — removing the handkerchief, and showing the marks of the 
blow — and a severe one it must have been. ‘ There, sir, see what 
I’ve got by marrying a drunkard. If there was a thing my old 
father hated, it was just such a dirty drunkard as he is.’ — ‘Mi 
More,’ cried Ethan, as he sat upon a chest, ‘jest hear to reason.’ — 
‘ You talk about reason !’ she cried ; ‘ if I was the devil himself, I ’d 
just as soon talk about righteousness, — reason — reason to be sure 

— i* almost chokes me to look at you, you base, drunken villain.’ 

— ‘ You had belter suffer your husband to speak,’ said I mildly. — 
‘ Husband ! ’ — said she, with an expression of rage and contempt : 
‘he wants to speak, does he I --He’s so drunk now you can’t 
understand him ; besides he can’t talk two minutes, to save his soul, 
without a pitcher or a bottle of cider — don’t let the villain have a 


Kirrv GRAtTON. 


3 


bottle — he ’ll give me another blow, as lih»j as not.’ — * Mrs. Graf- 
ton,’ said I, taking my hat, ‘ if I cannot be of any use to you, I will 
take my leave ; I cannot be of any use, unless I can understand the 
right and wrong of this matter ; and that I cannot do, unless you 
permit Mr. Grafton to speak.’ — ‘ Well, Mr. More,’ said Kitty, in 
a lower and a milder key, ‘ you was always kind to me from a 
child, and I like to look upon the friends of my parents; and, for 
your sake, I ’ll let him speak.’ — ‘Sir,’ said Ethan, ‘ I ’ll tell ye the 
hull story, if she 'll let me. Ye see, doctor — I mean Mr. More’ — 
‘ There now, did n’t I tell ye soV cried Kitty ; ‘ he thought he was 
talking to Doctor Pullet, the gambler, that cheated him out of his 
oxen, and his horse, and the watch my old father gave him, to keep 

for Elkanah, when he grew up, and the’ ‘ Stop, stop, Kitty,’ 

said I, ‘let him tell his story, as you promised you would.’ — ‘I 
was only a going to say,’ continued Ethan, ‘ that I did take rather 
too much cider a Christmas night, and she pulled me over, afore all 
my company, by the hair o’ my head; and, when I was in a 
passion, 1 struck her with the bottle, and I’ve been sorry ever since. 
Now, Mr. More, I’m ready to make it up with her afore you. 
There, if that isn’t fair, what isP — ‘ Well,’ said I to her, ‘what 
do you say to that, Kitty P — ‘I say, he ’s a liar, and fool, and a 
drunkard, that ’s what I say, Mr. More,’ said she. ‘He’s a liar, 
for he has n’t told half the truth ; he knows, that I pulled him over, 
because he was half murdering Elkanah. He ’s a fool to think I ’ll 
ever make up with him ; not I indeed. I told him long ago, that 
I ’d never forgive the weight of his finger, laid on me in anger : does 
the fool think I ’ll ever forgive such a blow as this ! and he ’s a 
drunkard, as everybody knows. I need n’t prove that, I suppose. 
He ’s drunk now ; he ’s been guzzling cidej: this morning, though it 
isn’t nine o’clock.’ — ‘No such thing,’ cried Ethan, ‘I haven’t 
touched a drop.’ — ‘ What did you go down cellar for? I heard the 
cellar door open and shut.’ — ‘ What did I go down for? — I didn’t 
go for cider any how — cider’s got to hurt me considerable. It’s 
jest this, Mr. More, I ’m a giving up cider pretty much, for I find a 
leetle cider brandy eases my pain, and makes me feel a sight better. 
But you see how it is, Mr. More ; I ’m not a going to call hard 
names, as she does; that isn’t what I calls Christian. You see 
what a firebrand she is. This is all I’ve got to say, you see 
what she is.’ — Kitty knit her brows and compressed her lips, 
and seemed to be gathering her strength, for an explosion of some 
sort ; and Ethan, as she turned her eyes upon him, seemed to cower 
before the impending tempest. — ‘Yes,’ said she, after a brief 
pause, ‘ you see what she is’ — pointing to her wound, which the 


32 


KITTY GRAFrOxN. 


agitation of her feelings had caused to bleed afresh — ‘ you see what 
she is — a poor broken-headed, and broken-hearted, but not broken- 
spirited woman — thank God and the blood of my old German 
father for the last;’ and, as she uttered these words, she set her 
teeth and clinched her fist, and looked at Ethan, with mingled 
defiance and contempt. — ‘ You see what she is — the mother of five 
starving children — the wife of an unfeeling, brutal drunkard. — 
Ethan Grafton,’ she cried, raising herself upon her bed, while her 
countenance underwent an astonishing change, — ‘you once saw 
what she was.' — I confess,” said my old master, “ with my perfect 
recollection of her great beauty and many attractions, in her youth, 
the tone, in which she uttered these words, touched me to the soul. 
— Her voice faltered ; its accents became comparatively gentle ; her 
lips quivered with intense emotion ; and her eyes filled with tears. — 

‘ Ethan Grafton,’ she repeated, ‘you once sa.w what she was — she 
was young and light-hearted, and the hard earnings of her father — 
whom you delight to call an old German beggar — God forgive you, 
for she never will — those hard earnings, and they were abundant, 
were all marked for her own. When she had given you her heart, 
this poor, confiding idiot persuaded her doting father to bestow those 
hard earnings upon you. If you had not broken her heart, she 
would neither sorrow nor sigh for her wasted possessions. And 
what has made her the firebrand that you say she is ? Was she not 
always a kind wife and devoted mother, until you took your ill 
courses? Did she ever give you one unkind word, until you 
became a drunkard? Did she ever dream of raising a finger against 
you, until you lifted your own unnatural hand against your unoffend- 
ing children, the bone of her bone and the flesh of her flesh? Might 
not the violence of her temper have slumbered forever, if you had 
not become a spendthrift, and a gambler, and a sot? — Look at him, 
Mr. More ; the brute is half asleep.’ — So indeed he seemed. ‘ Why 
do I waste my breath upon such a drunken carcass?’ she exclaimed. 

“ It was an impracticable case, as I told you,” said my old mas- 
ter. “ I inquired, if she ever read her Bible. She frankly con- 
fessed that she never did. She said, that Elkanah had sometimes 
come and sat down by her, at the bed-side, and read portions of the 
Psalms ; but, that her brain seemed to be on fire so continually, that 
she took no pleasure therein, nor in anything else. She even 
declared to me, that she believed she was losing her interest in her 
children. When I left the cottage, Elkanah went with me a few 
rods upon my way. The poor boy solicited permission to come and 
live with me : and, in the very earnestness of his desire, as he enu- 
merated the different ways, in which he could make himself useful 


KITTY RRAFTON. 


33 


in my service, I turned from him to hide my emotion. I bade him 
remember, that we were all born into a state of trial ; that he was 
called, at an early age, to bear his cross ; that it was not a light one ; 
but that God would surely support him. I reminded him, that his 
three brothers and his sister were almost dependent upon him, in the 
present state of the family. As we parted, he kissed my hand — 
his eyes were full of tears — ‘ Mr. More,’ said he, ‘ if I do the best 
T can, you will pray for me, won’t you, sir?' — ‘I will — 1 will, 
my poor child,’ said I, ‘ to that God, who tempers the wind to the 
shorn lamb.’ — He went back to the den of wretchedness, no doubt, 
with fear and trembling, and I pursued my way to the parsonage ; 
revolving various projects, for the relief of this miserable household, 
yet fixing definitively upon none. 

“ The notoriety of this shameful affray spread far and wide, and 
became the signal for the gathering of those gregarious troubles and 
vexations, which, saith the proverb, seldom come alone. One 
opprobrious tale is frequently the nest-egg of infamy. — Pamela 
Mickle had scarcely ceased to cackle, upon the present occasion, 
when every hen in the village of Heathermead began. Many dis- 
reputable facts were speedily related of Ethan Grafton ; and, as it 
commonly occurs, they were of both kinds, described by the worthy 
Dr. Witherspoon, such as have never happened, and such as have. 
The voice of the people was decidedly in Kitty’s favor. All agreed 
that her temper was tremendous ; but the conviction was very gen- 
eral, that it had never interfered with Ethan's domestic happiness, 
while he was temperate; and, that the same strength and impetu- 
osity of feeling, which had, of late, directed her words and actions 
against him, had guided her tongue and her heart as zealously in 
his favor, until he came to prefer his cups to her affection and rb- 
spect. 

“ Duns began to press from every quarter. If, in poor Grafton’s 
conscience, there yet remained a spot unseared, there seemed to be 
no lack of special mortifications for its trial to the quick. The cider 
manufacture, however, was now at an end. Kitty used to say, that 
she should have rejoiced over the cause, though it swept oft' her 
paternal acres, had the remedy been applied, before the disease was 
past a cure. Several mortgagees entered for non-payment, and took 
possession of their mortgaged premises, which included not only 
Ethan’s extensive orchards, but all the real estate left by old Jar - 
sen, excepting, as I have stated, the cottage and a small parcel of 
land around it; which he could not mortgage, as she had resolutely 
refused to relinquish her right of dower. Ethan therefore looked 
upon his remaining stock of cider and cider brandy as upon his last 
hope. Nevertheless he continued to drink on and be drunken. 


34 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


“ Dr. Pullet was a man of honor, and had faithfully kept his 
(vord : the promised rubber had been long since played, at the Little 
Black Dragon ; the fortunate cards were never missing from t he 
doctor’s pack ; and high, low, jack, and the game had settled the 
fate of Ethan’s gray mare. 

“ It was long after this occurrence, that Kitty Grafton, by per- 
mission of the mortgagee, to whom the land now belonged, had gone 
with Elkanah into a wood lot, in which her father had taken no 
small portion of a husbandman’s pride, to pick up the fallen limbs 
for fuel. She had been absent a couple of hours. As she was 
returning, the younger children ran to inform her, that a strange 
man had come with a cart, and taken away all the flowers in the 
green-house. This little building had been suffered hitherto to 
remain undisturbed. Most of the glasses had long since been de- 
stroyed, and Elkanah had shown himself exceedingly clever, in sup- 
plying their places with oiled paper. It served sufficiently well to 
shelter a few flowers and shrubs, which, through all her troubles, 
Kitty Grafton had still delighted to cherish. Several of them were 
perennials. Of these there were some, which she particularly 
valued — they had been fostered by the hands of her father — she 
had often been present, when the old man, from year to year, after 
delving, and pruning, and irrigating, had brought these beautiful 
exotics to display their utmost charms, and had called Theresa to 
contemplate their beauty. — Two of these had been objects almost 
of veneration with Gotlieb Jansen — they were from '■Fader Landd 
Such considerations as these, had they been faithfully revealed, 
would, in all probability, have imbued the spoiler with about the 
same measure of restraining grace, that a wolf might be presumed 
to feel, when informed, that the lamb, upon which he feeds, was 
the pet of some gentle shepherdess. Kitty Grafton hastened to the 
spot, and gazed, with a look of grief and indignation, upon the 
vacant shelves. Nothing remained, save, here and there, a rem- 
nant of the clematis and the passion-flower, which she had trained 
against the wall, and whose roots and main branches had been 
hastily torn away. She had not long returned to the cottage, 
before she obtained an explanation, from an old dame, who was pass- 
ing on horseback to Heatherinead, from the next village, with her 
panniers of cream, and eggs, and herbs, and poultry, for sale. Of 
late years, she had commonly stopped at Kitty Grafton’s cottage 
and taken bunches of flowers to sell, for which she generally found 
a ready market, in Heathermead Centre. The old dame, about 
three miles back, had met the man, on his way to the city, with the 
whole stock of the green-house ; and gathered all the particulars, 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


36 


which she proceeded to recount. Ethan, it seems, had gambled 
the plants away to Dr. Pullet, a fortnight before, and having, that 
morning, informed him of his wife’s absence, the doctor had sent his 
messenger to remove them to the city for sale, as expeditiously as 
possible. 

“ Kitty Grafton bit her lips ; but she neither wept nor raved. 
Her silence, upon such occasions, was portentous. It was that 
ominous stillness that precedes the hurricane ; and she took her 
revenge. 

‘ ‘ Ethan did not return, till a late hour of the night. He came, curs- 
ing and swearing, into the house, anticipating Kitty’s wrath, and pre- 
ferring an uproar of his own creating. This evidence of sagacity was 
entirely compatible with drunkenness. He had obtained liquor some- 
wl.3re, and was certainly drunk — drunk enough to be dry. His first 
thoughts were of cider, and his first step towards the cellar. — ‘ Give 
me a light,’ he cried^ as he stumbled towards the door. ‘ Elkanah,’ 
said Kitty Grafton, ‘ don’t you hear 1 Jump in a moment and get your 
father a light.’ — ‘Why — a — holloa, Kitty — why that ’s you now, 
how kind o’ civil you be. Like as may be not — we ’ll — we ’ll be 
happy yet. — I feel a kind o’ happy now — a — holloa, Elky dear, — 
let ’s have a little cider to show your poor old daddy the way to the 
candle.’ — Elkanah gave the light to his mother, who handed it to her 
husband. — ‘ Take care, Ethan,’ said she, as she opened the cellar 
door, ‘ don’t you fall ; you know how I should miss you, if you 
should break your neck.’ — ‘ Thank ye, Kitty,’ said he as he pro- 
ceeded slowly down the cellar stairs ; ‘ this is jest as it wa — was 
in old times. I can't help crying, you ’re so — why, what makes 
the brandy smell so strong — holloa, I ’ve cut my foot with a glass 
bottle.’ — ‘Cut your throat with another, you mean, drunken 
beast,’ cried Kitty Grafton, as she slammed to the cellar door and 
fastened it upon her husband. — Ethan, drunk as he was, soon per- 
ceived that he was imprisoned. After many ineffectual kicKs and 
curses, he found release impossible, and he sought in vain for com- 
fort where he was. Every bottle had been demolished. Kitty had 
given a long hour to the work of destruction. Every barrel and 
keg had been staved ; and the cellar floor was soaked, with a mixture 
of cider, perry, and cider brandy. Ethan raved, and vowed eternal 
vengeance. Kitty made no reply ; but, securing the cellar door with 
a few nails, she threw herself upon her bed for the night, telling 
Elkana .i, if he let his father out, he would certainly murder them all. 

“ TI >3 next morning, she drew the nails, as silently as possible ; 
and, setting the cellar door wide open, placed herself behind it, and 
waited the madman’s approach. He soon came forth, uttering lor- 


36 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


rents of oaths and imprecations, and armed with a stick of wooo. 
which he had picked up in the cellar. He saw no one but Elkanah. 
and upon him he poured out his wrath, — * Why did n’t you let me 
out, you young hell-hound?’ said he, rushing towards him with his 
uplifted stick. — ‘Oh, father — father!’ cried the poor boy, as he 
fell on his knees, and lifted his clasped hands for mercy. Ethan 
seized the lad by the shoulder, and lifted his stick in the air — the 
blow was about to fall, when he felt himself violently drawn back 
by the hair of his head. — He suddenly turned, while his eyes glared 
in horror upon the newly-sharpened carving-knife within two inches 
of his throat. — ‘Beg your life, you poor brute!’ cried Kitty, as 
she advanced the point slowly to his very windpipe. — ‘ Oh, don’t 
— don’t — mother,’ cried Elkanah. — ‘ Will ye beg your life, you 
drunken wretch?’ said Kitty, as she held him with the grasp of 
a tigress. — ‘Murder, murder!’ cried Ethan, while his eyeballs 
seemed to start from their very sockets. He made a strong effort, 
and, escaping from her grasp, rushed into the road. 

“ It would be needless to pursue this painful and disgusting 
detail. He vented his rage, after dark, upon Kitty’s flower-garden. 
In the morning not a vestige of it remained. He did not even 
spare the little compartment, which his poor children had been per- 
mitted to cultivate for themselves. 

“ Years rolled on — years of sheer misery, and domestic warfare. 
When Ethan came home drunk, she used to beat him with the 
broomstick or the poker. He, in return, when he had recovered 
from the effects of the liquor, would cut up her clothes, and sell the 
apparel of his children by piecemeal, whenever he could lay his 
hand upon any portion of it. When he was not so drunk as to 
afford his wife a fair prospect of success, in a direct personal 
encounter, she would sometimes try her skill at long shot. While 
he has been sitting, partially tipsy, within the cottage, she has been 
seen with her apron full of stones, on the outside, taking deliberate 
aim through the window-glass at her lord and master, and not 
unfrequently with the fatal precision of a skilful engineer. In the 
mean time, their poor children were growing up in a full knowledge 
of much, which they ought not to have known, and in utter igno- 
rance of those matters, of which the children of worthy parents, at a 
similar age, are commonly informed. The degradation of Ethan 
and his wife appeared to be complete ; their chief employment seemed 
to be the infliction of all possible annoyance upon each other ; their 
appearance had become squalid and miserable ; their children were 
the most wretched and ragged little group in the village. They 
lived literally from hand to mouth. Elkanah labored industriously 


KirrY GRAFTON. 


37 


He was now rather more than sixteen years of age, and he culti- 
vated a portion of the land about the cottage. The neighbors were 
kind to him ; and, notwithstanding her wild and ferocious behavior, 
Kitty Grafton was still an object of pity and regard with many of 
our villagers. There was a farmer, whose name was Jason Lam- 
bert. He had been one of Kitty Jansen's lovers, but had long been 
married, and the father of several interesting children. If happi- 
ness ever found a resting-place on earth, it was by the fireside of 
this pious family. Jason’s wife, upon the suggestion of her com- 
passionate husband, was charitable, in many ways, to Kitty Grafton 
and her children. They had other friends. E-lkanah v.'as constant 
at meeting. The Grafton pew had been sold on execution ; and, 
after that event, Elkanah took his seat upon the forms assigned to 
the town's poor. I told him, after meeting,” said my old master, 
“ that he should always be welcome to a seat in our pew. He was 
very well dressed on the Sabbath, and I was somewhat surprised at 
the goodness of .his apparel. It was explained to me afterward : 
The market woman, who used to dispose of Kitty’s flowers and such 
other trifles as she had to sell, had lost her only son, who was about 
Elkanah 's age ; and, moved by compassion for this poor youth, she 
had made him a present of the Sunday suit, which lier own child 
had worn. Elkanah was obliged, when he took them off, on Sab- 
bath evening, to conceal them from his father, who would certainly 
have sold them for rum, had they fallen in his way. 

“Time, at length, produced a change, in the affairs of this miser- 
able family ; and, if it came too late to enable Kitty Grafto i to 
recover from her degradation, and to take a new departure foi the 
voyage of life, it was certainly productive of some important res dts. 
Ethan liad been employed, by some charitable neighbor, to take his 
grist to mill. On his way he contrived to get miserably drunk ; 
and, on his return, fell from his horse head foremost upon the frozen 
ground, and broke his neck. When the news was brought to Kitty, 
that Ethan was dead, ‘ The Lord is merciful at last,’ she cried, ‘ and, 
if Ethan Gr jfton had not made me a beggar, I 'd gladly give you a 
trifle for the good news. The devil has got his own, and upon his 
own terms . 00 .’ — The wretched condition of the family made it 
absolutely necessary, that Ethan Grafton's remains should be buried 
from the poor-house. Some of the neighbors endeavored to persuade 
Kitty to look upon him once more, before he was committed to the 
ground. But she resolutely refused. ‘ I *11 not pretend to mourn,’ 
said she, ‘ when I rejoice ; and you 'd, every one of you, be as happy 
as 1 am, to have such a mill-stone cut away from your necks. T« 
be sure I ’d rather look upon him dead ihan living, but I desu»* tc 

VOL. II. 4 


3S 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


do neither. He ’s run his drunken race. — It ’s God’s.will, and I ’ll 
be the last to gainsay it.’ — The funeral took place upon the follow- 
ing day ; and it was sufficiently unceremonious, to quadrate with 
the notions of those, who are the most averse to pomp and pageantry. 
At one o’clock, in the afternoon, Purley Pulsifer, the sexton, arrived 
at the poor house with his hearse, drawn by a lame Canadian pony. 
I went thither, and made the prayer, which was interrupted, now 
and then, by the sobbing of some person present. — At the conclu- 
sion, I looked round the room. — It was Elkanah. Some kind person 
had furnished a piece of crape for his hat ; and, w’hen the coffin had 
been lifted upon the hearse, Purley Pulsifer took the horse by the 
bridle, and Elkanah, not only the chief, but the only mourner, fol- 
lowed behind. I stepped after him,” said my old master, “ and, 
taking this interesting boy by the hand, walked with him to the 
-grave. The body was speedily committed to the ground. Purley, 
who was an active young man, stripped off his coat, and consumed 
not more than five minutes in filling up the grave. Familiarity 
certainly begets indifference, if it do not breed contempt. Purley 
Pulsifer closed the gate of the grave-yard and mounted his hearse ; 
and, in less than five minutes, he was trotting his little, lame Cana- 
dian, at the top of his speed, against Boogley the butcher's sorrel 
colt over Heathermead common, hearse and all. — I gave Elkanah 
a few words of parting counsel, and requested him to visit me, on 
the following evening, at the parsonage. 

“ Pie came, at the time appointed, and I received him in my study. 
I inquired after the family, and he informed me, that his mother had 
not said a word, in relation to his father's death, since the funeral ; 
and that she scarcely opened her mouth to speak on any subject, 
unless some one of the children spoke to her first. — I asked him, if 
he had thought of any plans for the future ; and, I confess, I was 
pleased and surprised, at the good sense and forecast of this poor 
lad, who had been reared in a den of misery — the trembling slave 
of a drunken father — and who had been favored with no other 
advantages,'than such as he had received from his aged grandparents. 
He told me, that he had often thought of my counsel to him, and 
that he had tried to do all he could for his mother and the other 
children, though it was very little. He said that he was then nearly 
seventeen, and that he had often thought he could do something 
better for them, and himself too, if he went elsewhere to seek his 
fortune ; and that he was sure he should be a great deal happier 
anyw'here than at home, where everything brought so many dis- 
tressing recollections to his mind. The pressure of a peculiar afflic- 
tion,- upon the nervous system of this boy, had become already 


KITTY GRAFTON 


39 


alarming-. How much longer the same cause might have continued 
to operate, without producing madness or idiocy, it would be no 
easy matter to determine. He admitted, in answer to some in- 
quiries of mine, that, for years, his sleep had always been disturbed 
by the fear of his father's anger ; and that he had often leaped from 
his bed, while dreaming that his father was pursuing him, and filled 
the house with his cries, until his mother had come to awaken him 
from these distressing slumbers. He told me, that when he was 
walking in the road, or in the field, or wmrking in the garden, he 
found himself occasionally affected with violent agitation ; and that, 
at such times, he was apt to start and look around him, in terror. 
He stated, that, although he knew his father was dead, and had 
seen him buried in the earth, he still retained a vague and unac- 
countable dread of him ; and that this condition of mind had kept 
him from sleeping, during the greater part of the preceding night. 

“ I asked him^ if he had spoken to his mother upon the subject 
of leaving home, and ascertained that he had. She had told him he 
might do as he pleased, and did not even inquire into his plans, in 
such event. Her state of mind was evidently deplorable. Her 
care for her children seemed now of no higher order than the solici- 
tude, which a hyena may be supposed to feel for her whelps. She 
willingly attended to their cries of hunger, and procured their food, 
while they were unable to obtain it for themselves ; and, with the 
same instinctive principle for her prompter, wdiich impels the beast 
of the field, she gathered them into their lairs, and watched over 
their safety, and kindled into fury, upon the approach of an assail- 
ant. She appeared to care not, if they were reared in utter igno- 
rance, and their religious welfare was the least of her concerns. — 
Her mind seemed not to have lost its energy, w^hen roused into 
action ; but her hopes had been confined to the present world, and 
these hopes had been effectually blasted. The gentle yet irresistible 
springs of poor Kitty’s heart had lost their temper ; those fires, 
which, for years, had burnt so fiercely there, had deprived them of 
their elasticity. Her mind therefore remained inactive, unmoved by 
all other impulses than those, which v/ere purely instinctive, 

“It was decided, that Elkanah should follow the bias of his own 
mind, in which there appeareif to be so much less of waywardness 
or will than of rational calculation. Elkanah’s travelling equipage 
was superlatively simple : a small bundle, supported upon his 
shoulder, on the end of an oaken stick, that had belonged to old 
Gotlieb Jansen, comprised his whole earthly possessions, real, per- 
sonal, and mixed. The poor fellow had suffered most, for the want 
of a pair of shoes ; on the day before his departure, I happened to 


40 


KITW GRAFTON. 


be at Job Rawlins’ shop, when Elkanah came in, to I 'eg a few ends 
and the loan of an awl t j repair his old ones. Rawlins was thought 
to be a crabbed fellow, and I had prepared myself to hear a surly 
reply, possibly a refusal. — ‘ Well, Elky,’ said he, as he eyed the 
boy over his spectacles, ‘ you ’re a going to seek your fortin, I hear ’ 

— ‘ Yes, sir,’ replied Elkanah, ‘ I ’m going to try to do something. 

— ‘ Well, boy,’ rejoined the shoemaker, ‘ I guess you ’ll succeed : 
you’ve had a bad sample o’ life to begin with. Let’s see your 
shoes. — Pshaw, them aren't wuth mending ; the upper leather ’s 
all rotten; you couldn’t walk ten miles in these old brogues.’ 
Rawlins rummaged over his drawers, and taking out a stout pair, told 
Elkanah to try them on ; they fitted him exactly. ‘ There,’ said 
he, ‘ how do they feel V — ‘ They seem very easy, sir,’ replied the 
boy, as he was proceeding to take them off ; ‘ I 've no money to buy 
a new pair, and, if you ’ll be so good as to let me have two or three 
ends, I ’ll ’ — ‘ Pshaw !’ cried Rawlins, ‘ put ’em on agin, I tell ye. 
I know you have n’t got no money, Elky ; if you ever get rich, and 
come back here, why, you may pay me for ’em ; they ’re six and 
eight pence ; and if you have a hard run, T sha’n’t think nothing 
on ’t, if you never pay for the shoes.’ — I was so pleased with Raw- 
lins, that I ordered a new pair of whole boots, though 1 did not 
really need them ; and told him Mrs. More would step in the next 
day to be measured for a pair of pattens. 

“ The next morning, at an early hour, Elkanah turned his back 
upon the cottage at Heathermead End. He wept over his little 
sister and his brethren, and they mingled their tears with his. His 
mother shed not a tear. And when he kissed her cheek, and bade 
her farewell, she only replied, ‘ I shall wish you dead, Elkanah, if 
you ever become a drunkard.’ 

“ The lad stopped at my house, to take leave of me. Mrs. More 
insisted on putting a few crackers into his bundle ; and, after he had 
gone, she told me, that he had not forgotten the Bible which his 
grandfather had given him — she had seen it carefully deposited in 
his little pack. He took leave of me with evident emotion, and I 
gave him my blessing. 

“ A few days after Elkanah’s departure, I made a visit to the 
cottage. 1 came upon its inmates by surprise. I found Kitty sitting 
alone, in the very apartment, in which, while old Gotlieb was liv- 
ing, I had enjoyed so many hours of rational happiness. It was now 
miserably furnished, and without a vestige of that air of comfort, 
lor which it had once been remarkable. Gotlieb’s arm-chair still 
remained in this apartment, and in it, as I entered, sat his ill-fated 
daughter, with her arms folded, and her eyes bent unmeaningh 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


41 


upon the floor. She appeared to me then decidedly the most for 
lorn and miserable object, in human form, that I had ever beheld 
She did not even ask me to take a sea!, w^hich she had never omit- 
ted before. I endeavored to draw her into conversation, but m}'’ 
attempts were fruitless. Short answers to my direct inquiries were 
all I could obtain. I asked after the children ; she seemed not to 
know where they were. I soon after saw them playing near a pond, 
in rear of the cottage. I inquired of her, if she did not feel an inter- 
est in their welfare : she made no direct reply, but, without raising 
her eyes from the floor, and shrugging up her shoulders as she 
spoke, she said in an under tone — ‘ They’ll all je drunkards like 
enough.’ — I strove to rouse her from this condition of apathy, by 
pointing out to her a mother’s accountability, for her faithful stew- 
ardship over the children that God has given her ; but I might as 
profitably have preached homilies to the woods and rocks. Many 
succeeding visits were attended with the same results. Neverthe- 
less, she gave no evidence, by her outward conduct, of insanity. 
After the removal of the grand exciting cause, I am inclined to 
believe there were no striking exhibitions of violent temper. She 
appeared to be attentive to the wants of her children, in regard 
to their food and clothing. The neighbors were kind ; and, with 
their assistance, she supplied the simple demands of nature, and 
still continued to patch up their apparel, such as it was. She never 
mentioned Elkanah, and whenever I spoke encouragingly of the 
poor boy, she invariably gave me the same laconic and ominous leply 
— ‘ He ’ll be a drunkard.’ — I made an application to the overseers 
of the poor, to ascertain, if this family might not with propriety be 
received into the poor-house ; believing, as I did with good reason, 
that the children would have a better opportunity for acquiring a 
little useful knowledge. There was an ohjection, in the fact, that 
Kitty had her right of dower, in all that still remained of the home- 
stead ; and could not therefore be considered a pauper, without vis- 
ible means of support. She was no vagrant, for she never stirred 
from home. Clearly, without her consent, it seemed not easy to 
effectuate our good wishes, on her behalf. Accordingly, I sought a 
convenient opportunity, and, with all imaginable caution, suggested 
the propriety of such a measure. This was the only occasion, since 
Ethan’s death, upon which I ever witnessed any violent excitement 
of her temper ; and my well-meant endeavor cost me the entire loss 
of her confidence, which I have never been able to regain. When- 
ever I approach her, she turns her back upon me, as she did this 
morning, with an expression of distrust and aversion. When I 
mentioned the poor-house, upon the occasion to which I have aliu- 
YOL. II. 4* 


42 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


4ed, though she had remained entirely unmoved, till that moment 
she started suddenly, and sprang from her seat — ‘ Gotlieb Jansen’s 
daughter in the poor-house !’ said she, with a strong and passionate 
utterance, and, instantly quitting the apartment, flung to the door 
with violence, and left me alone. — I never was able to reinstate 
myself in the good graces of Kitty Grafton. 

“ More than six months had elapsed, since Elkanah left the vil- 
lage, when, upon my application at the post-office one morning, a 
double letter was put into my hand, with the New York post-mark. 
It was from Elkanah Grafton. This letter was tolerably well writ- 
ten, and very well expressed. It contained twenty dollars, and the 
postage had been paid. Elkanah informed me, that, with the excep- 
tion of a short illness, he had enjoyed excellent health, and that God 
had prospered his humble exertions beyond his hopes. He stated, 
that, after his arrival in New York, he soon obtained a good situa- 
tion, as a porter in a store, for which, as he was quite stout for 
his years, he had found himself well qualified. In that station, 
he had very soon, by untiring industry, acquired the means of pur- 
chasing a hand-cart, for which he had found constant and profit- 
able occupation ; and, that he had laid by an amount nearly suffi- 
cient to pay for a horse and dray. With these, if God should 
continue his good health, he thought he should be able to do a very 
profitable business, as he had already, by his strict attention, acquired 
the good will of the merchant, whom he had served in the capacity 
of porter, and who promised to find him constant employment. He 
regretted, that he could not conveniently send a larger sum, for his 
mother and the children. He hoped, if the Lord prospered him, to 
do much more for them all, and that the children would not grow 
up in entire ignorance. He informed me, that an obliging young 
man, a cleik in the store, where he first obtained employment, had 
taught him to write, in his intervals of leisure. He requested me 
to pay Mr. Rawlins for the shoes, and tell him, they had done him 
good service, and to apply the residue of the twenty dollars, for the 
benefit of the family. He concluded, by telling me, that, upon the 
first night, after he quitted Heathermead, he slept more soundly 
than he had done for years ; and that he closed his eyes the more 
happily, because I had assured him, I would certainly pray God to 
protect and prosper him. 

“ I was so much delighted with the reception of this letter, that I 
went over immediately to the shoemaker’s shop. Rawlins wa.s sit- 
ting upon his bench, with his lap-stone on his knees, hammering a 
piece of sole-leather. I took my seat upon an unoccupied bench 
directly before him. Holding the letter in one hand, and the twenty 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


43 


dollars in the other — ‘ It ’s from Elkanah Grafton, Mr. Rawlins,’ 
said I. — ‘Why, how you talk! Parson More,’ cried the shoe- 
maker, as he set down his lap-stone on the floor, and, resting his 
cheek upon his hand, looked at me earnestly over his glasses, as I 
commenced reading the letter. — ‘ Tliere,’ said he, when I had fin- 
ished, ‘ don’t you remember, parson, I told him he ’d get along?’ 
— ‘ ^es,’ I replied, ‘ 1 think 1 do — now, Mr. Rawlins, if you ’ll 
change the bill, I ’ll pay you for the shoes.’ — ‘ Pshaw, Parson More, 
i meant to give Elky them are shoes, and I set it down as lent to the 
Lord ; ’t was a part o’ what I calculated to give away this year. I 
can't take no pay for them shoes no way.’ — I was about to press 
the matter, when he cried, as he caught up the lap-stone — ‘ Pshaw, 
Parson More, I can't, no how,’ and began to hammer the sole- 
leather with all his might, while he struck up ‘ Life is the time,’ 
with a voice, that defied all further expostulation. 

“ I proceeded immediately to Heathermead End. Being thor- 
oughly aware'of Kitty’s aversion to my visits, I knocked once only 
at the cottage door, that I might secure an interview, opening it 
almost at the same moment, and holding the letter in my hand. She 
was in the apartment, and we stood, for an instant, in full view 
of each other. I scarcely opened my mouth to communicate the 
tidings, when she clapped her hands upon her ears, and strode off 
towards the fields, saying as she went, ‘ I ’ll hear nothing about the 
poor-house.’ — I watched her for a few moments, till she had 
reached the confines of the neighboring w’ood lot. I was satisfied, 
that our direct communications w^ere at an end ; and sincerely regret- 
ted, that I had limited my power of usefulness, by approaching a 
subject so exceedingly offensive to her pride. I had lost her confi- 
dence, and had no course left, but to open some other channel of 
communication. The nearest neighbors were the family of Ashur 
Mellen : they had never been particularly blessed in their basket 
and store — they were poor, but pious, industrious, and eminently 
cheerful. Of their pittance they were ready to impart to those, 
whose necessities were greater than their own. This family had 
been unvaryingly kind to Kitty Grafton and her children. Ashur’s 
only daughter was, at this time, eighteen years of age. Her affec- 
tionate temper had led her frequently to Kitty’s cottage ; she had 
often taken her seat by the poor creature's side, and, in some slight 
measure, broken in upon her desperate state of mind, by playing 
with the children. At one time, she would give them some little 
instruction in their reading and spelling ; and, at another, she would 
rail)' the 'mother's energies, by taking their ragged clothes into her 
own hands, and proceeding to repair them. I confided Elkanah’a 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


44 

letter and the money to the care of Ashur Mellen, whose integrity 
was a proverb in our village. He told me, a few days after, that 
his daughter had read the letter to Kitty Grafton, who uttered noth- 
ing at the close, but her customary prophecy, whenever the name 
of Elkanah w'as mentioned ; — ‘ He ’ll die a drunkard yet.’ Farmer 
Mellen informed me, that Kitty would not receive the money, nor 
give any direction how it should be employed ; and that his daugh- 
ter had therefore taken the charge upon herself of laying it out to 
the best advantage. ‘ You ’ve seen,’ said Ashur Mellen, ‘ how our 
Rhoda flies round with her rake in haying time, jest afore a thunder 
show'er, — why, Mr. More,’ said he, ‘ she ’s equal to any two hired 
men ; — well, she ’s jest as busy now about fixing these here chil- 
dren. She ’s been at it, from morning to night, ever since you was 
t' our house. ’Zeik Atherton, that ’s been a kind o’ courting Rhoda, 
you know, says, arter what he ’s seed for the last three days, he’ll 
trust her with anybody's children.’ — I well recollect the delight I felt, 
on the following Sabbath, after I had been seated, for a short time, 
in m)’^ pulpit, when I saw' Rhoda Mellen, with an air of justifiable 
pride and pleasure, leading Kitty Grafton's four children, tidily appar- 
elled, into God's holy temple. I took special care to notice them 
after the service ; and, in a voice, sufficiently distinct to be heard by 
more than one, I commended Rhoda for her zeal for these orphans 
— and such in reality they were. I never was given to making 
matches,” continued my old master, “ but I wished Rhoda Mellen 
a good husband, with all my heart, and I was particularly careful to 
bestow this commendation upon the poor girl, in the hearing of 
Ezekiel Atherton, who, though he had not yet offered himself, was 
paying her considerable attention. Atherton was a w'orthy young 
man, and owned a farm, a small one to be sure, but it w'as unen- 
cumbered. He was evidently gratified, quite as sincerely as Rhoda 
herself, by my approbation, and seemed to catch no small portion 
of her enthusiasm. His horse and wagon were speedily at the 
church door ; Rhoda could not decently refuse his invitation ; though, 
as she caught a glance at the groups, who were tittering and sim- 
pering on the church steps, in the best good-nature withal, she 
olnshed to the very roots of her fine black hair. Kitty's four chil- 
dren were also accommodated in the w'agon, and Ezekiel Atherton, 
as he drove off, with his shining face, gave a familiar nod, and 
happy smile to his waggish companions, who complimented him 
upon his growing family. Ashur Mellen called on me the next 
morning, before breakfast, a full week, before I could possibly com- 
ply Avith his request, to ask me to publish the banns of marriage 
between Ezekiel Atherton and his daughter Rhoda. 


KITTi^ GRAFTON. 


45 


Rhoda Mellen's anticipations of brighter days to come abated not 
the tithe of a hair of her interest in these poor children. Her atlen 
tions to them and their wretched mother seemed ratlier to be multi- 
plied. 

“ I acknowledged the receipt of Elkanah's letter, directing, as he 
had requested, to the care of A. I. McFinnison and Co., informing 
him in what manner the money had been employed, and furnishing 
such information as I thought proper. His letters and supplies of 
money continued to reach me for the space of two years, with inter- 
missions of three or four months. From their general tenor I was 
led to believe, that he was growing in favor with God and man. 
While he described his prosperity, as transcending his utmost expec- 
tations, he appeared — and his language could not have been mis- 
taken — to feel the same humble accountability to Gia that an 
unexceptionable steward ought to feel to a master, from whom he 
has received all that he enjoys. He had made valuable friends ; 
and he appeared to be in no danger of losing them. The master, 
w'hom he had first served in the city, having found him faithful over 
a few things, had made him steward over many. The same indi 
vidual, a clerk in the store, who had taught him to write, had 
instructed him also in arithmetic and book-keeping. His employer 
had not failed to perceive, that, in addition to his religious and 
moral qualifications, his industry, activity, and intelligence, and 
highly acceptable manners, fitted him for a more elevated walk 
At the expiration of fourteen months, he disposed of his horse and 
dray, and was received into the counting room, as a clerk. The 
business of the firm had led them to cultivate extensive connec 
tions with the western country. Two years had scarcely elapsed, 
since Elkanah Grafton departed from the village, — the penniless 
descendant of a drunken father, — before his commercial friends 
thought him so far worthy of their confidence, as to employ him at 
a distance, and to give him such a credit as to enable him to com- 
mence business on his own account. He advised me of this good 
fortune. Seven months elapsed, after the reception of this letter, 
before another reached me from New Orleans. Plis accounts were 
still exceedingly flattering, in regard to his success ; but they were 
so justly expressed, and so admirably well tempered with a firm 
reliance upon God, — with such a Christian submission to his will, — 
with such a humble willingness, whether he giveth or taketh away, 
to bless his holy name, — that I truly believe, had this young man 
been suddenly reduced to penury again, he would have borne the 
cross like a veteran soldier. Such, however, seemed not as yet to 
be the destiny of Heaven. 1 had nearly forgotten to state, that. 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


4S 

after I had informed him of Rhoda He len’s great kindness to his 
mother and the children, he frequently requested me to employ a 
part of his remittances for their benefit. — Rawlins was growing 
old ; his eyesight began to fail him ; and he could scarcely express 
the satisfaction he enjoyed, when I presented him with a large Fam- 
ily Bible, which I had been requested by Elkanah, as he was al)ouj 
leaving New York for the western country, to purchase on his 
account. ‘ Why, pshaw, Mr. More, I want to know,’ said he, a. 
he stared at the binding ; ‘ this here ’s slick enough. What a raai 
good type ’tis,’ he continued, as he opened at the first chapter of 
Genesis. — ‘ That are I is full as long as my pegging awl — an 3 
there, Mr. More, only look at that are capital G ; it ’s every bit and 
grain as big as a young woman’s heel-tap Well, for sartain, it ’s the 
polite thing in Elky to send me sich a grand present. I wonder 
how he ’s off, for shoes, Mr. More; though, as like as not, he 
wouldn’t wear such as I make, now he *s getting on so fine. My 
old hand hasn’t lost its cunning, for all that; look a here, Mr. 
More,’ said he, taking down a pair of military boots, which he had 
just completed for Colonel Peppergrass, ‘ what d’ ye say to them?’ 
— I told him I thought his work as respectable as anybody's. — 
‘Pshaw, Mr. More!’ said he, ‘when you write, you’ll please to 
give my best benevolence to Elky, and thank him peticlar.’ ' 

“ After Rhoda Mellen was married, though the distance was 
materially increased, between her residence and the Grafton cottage, 
she still contrived to see the children frequently, and took them with 
her to meeting almost every Sabbath. 

“ Years rolled away, and no visible change occurred in regard to 
Kitty Grafton. She rose up and lay down with her accustomed 
regularity. She prepared the simple meals for herself and her chil 
dren ; and gave some attention to their clothing. When not thus 
engaged, her mind appeared to settle into that state ‘of bitter de- 
spondency, which I have already described. 

“ I was sitting, one evening, in this very chair, and looking out of 
that window — it was nearly sunset — Mrs. More and myself had been 
remarking, a short time before, upon the very rapid passage of those 
five years, which had gone by, since Elkanah left the village. The 
mail stage stopped at the door ; and a well-dressed young man 
alighted and advanced towards it. — It was Elkanah Grafton — 1 
met him in the entry — he embraced me with the affection of a child, 
and I wept over him like a father. — After a brief conversation 
between him and Mrs. More, respecting his mother and the children, 
he expressed a wish to visit the cottage. We proceeded together. 
I informed him, by the way, of the circumstance, which had lost 


KITTY GRAFTON. 


47 


me his mother’s confidence, and he disclosed to me his plans, respect- 
ing- his younger brothers and his sister. He told me, that the Lord 
had placed the means abundantly in his power, for doing good, and 
that he felt accountable lor their employment. When we arrived 
at the cottage, the children were playing before the door. The 
elder instantly recognized his brother, and exclaimed, as he ran into 
the house, ‘ Mother, Elkanah has come!’ — Kitty came forth with 
a degree of earnestness, in her look and manner, which surpt-sed 
me. There was a faint smile upon her features, and her lips trem- 
bled with emotion. ‘ Elkanah I’ said she ; — but as he approached 
her, she observed me, for the first time, and clapping her hands 
upon her ears, she returned to the house, exclaiming, as upon a for- 
mer occasion, ‘ I ’ll hear nothing of the poor-house.’ 

“ Elkanah followed her into the house, and I told the children to 
inform him, that I had returned to the parsonage, and should expect 
him there. 

“ It was late in the evening, before he came. His spirits were 
evidently depressed by the scene he had witnessed. He informed 
me, that, when he had followed his mother into the cottage, there 
was no longer the slightest evidence of emotion ; that his efforts to 
rouse her from her apathy were utterly ineffectual ; and that she 
had scarcely appeared to listen to his propositions for her advantage. 
When he suggested a removal from the cottage to a more comfort- 
able residence, she shook her head wdth a slight expression of anger ; 
and, after a short pause, exclaimed, ‘ Here I was born, and here I 
will die.’ — In answer to his request for permission to remove the 
children for the purposes of education, she said, ‘Very well — they ’ll 
all be drunkards.’ 

“ Elkanah Grafton remained a fortnight in the village. It would 
be superfluous to say, that he visited his old friend Rawlins, and 
took tea three or four times with Ezekiel Atherton and his wife. 
Elkanah gathered his most important lessons from an infallible 
teacher ; and I have never known an individual more oblivious of 
injuries or more tenacious of the recollection of benefits than he. 

“ There are many interesting circumstances, connected with this 
narrative, w hich I cannot relate, wdthout an extension of the story to 
an unwarrantable length. The residue may easily be told, in a sum- 
mary manner. — Many years have passed away, since those days of 
domestic desolation, when poor Elkanah w^as a broken-spirited slave, 
in the cottage of his drunken father. He yet lives, opulent, respected, 
and beloved — the benefactor of his fellow-men. He took upon him- 
self the education of his three brothers and his sister. The latter is 
now the wife of a respectable professional gentleman in . One 


48 


KIITY GRAFTON. 


of his brothers became a merchant, and is a man of wealth. The 
other two, at Elkanah’s chargee, received a liberal education. Of 
these one prepared for the ministry, but has been called, I trust, to 
a better world. 

“ In the Mahometan empire, refreshing fountains are often pre- 
sented to the view of the traveller by the side of the public way. 
Of these many are pious foundations. Trees are planted around them. 
Here the pious Mussulman throws off his mantle ; spreads it for a 
carpet on the ground ; and with his prayers, unites his expressions 
of gratitude to that benefactor, to whom he is indebted for the waters 
of the fountain, for shade, and for repose. — In a distant corner of 
our country there is a fountain of learning and piety, whose streams 
have already gone forth to refresh and irrigate the world. For cen- 
turies to come, the Christian disciple, in a higher and a holier 
spirit, while he partakes of its living waters, shall mingle with his 
tlianksgiving to the Most High God his grateful recollections of its 
founder — that wandering boy, who, having no earthly father to 
comfort and to guide, became a child of God — a steward of the poor 

— a benefactor of mankind. — Such was Elkanah Grafton. 

“ Having long since despaired of my best efforts, when directly 
employed upon that miserable woman, whom we saw this morning, 

— 1 have sometimes induced other persons to convey to her the 
tidings of God s kind and merciful dealings with her children. She 
has but one commentary on such occasions — ‘ They 'll all be drunk- 
ards.’ — Everything is done to render her situation comfortable. 
Efforts were made, by her son’s directions, to repair the cottage, 
and put the estate in better order ; but she expressed so much dis- 
pleasure, and even anger, that I ordered the workmen to desist. 
She told them, if they repaired it, her children, when they becamt 
drunkards, would certainly tear it to pieces. She is desperate, as I 
told you before. This word is often used in a violent sense ; I do 
not so intend it. She is without hope, and, of course, without hap- 
piness. — It was once far otherwise — she and her husband were 
among the happiest of that class of my parishioners, whose happi- 
ness was vested in mere earthly joys and possessions ; and I truly 
believe, that, such as it was, that happiness might have continued, 
unimpaired, to the present hour — if Ethan Grafton’s cider had not 
been equal to wiie.” 


TOO FAST AND TOO FAR; 

OR, 

THE COOPER AND THE CURRIER. 


Few things have appeared, to our apprehension, more thoroughly fantastical than such cbj«( 
as have been opposed to the temperance pledge. The original objectors themselves, many of \vhoi4 
have become zealous and prominent members of the temperance society, appear to be rapialy 
arriving, ore after another, at the same prulitable conclusion. Most of these objections have been 
effectually arswered. The most formidable of them all is that, which declares that the employment 
of the pledge takes from man his moral power, inasmuch as it lowers the standard of human motive. 
This objection, tricked out in all the embellishments of human perfectibility, and the self-sulhcisncy 
of man’s moral potter, is exceedingly specious. But it is nothing more. If man were still only a 
little lower lluin the aegels, notwithstanding his fall, we should have infinitely less material than at 
piesent, wherewith to construct a reply to this objection. But it is surely far'mherwise. Many, to 
whom the pledge has been tendered, and who hate been reclaimed tlirouirh its instrumentality, 
were not only a little lower than the angels, but, for the time, very considerably lower than the 
beasts that perish. With men, who art habitually intemperate, it is assuredly an unprofitable task 
to talk of higher and holier considerations. In his chapter on drunkenness, Archdeacon Paley has 
the following observation : — “/ 'dejinite resolutiont of abstemiousness are apt to yield to extraor- 
diuory occasions, and extraordinary occasions to occur perpetually ; whereas the stricter the rule is, 
the more tenacious we grow of it ; and many a m in will abstain rather than break his rule, who would 
not easily be brought to exercise the tame mortification from higher motives.” We offer the pledge 
to the intemperate man, us a mechanical help, and to the temperate man, that we may have the 
weight of his example on our side. 

The pledge is believed to be an invaluable pan of that machinery, whereby the temperance refor- 
mation has been advanced to its present state. The following tale is intended to illustrate its 
importance in a case, unattended by the common formalities ; and in which the obligation ran not to 
a society, from one of its members, but from an intemperate young man to his friend and neighbor. 

Drunkenness is frequently neither more nor less than a trick or habit, whose very charm and 
influence over its ill-fated slave depend upon its continuity from day to day, or from hour to hour. 
If this continuity can be inierrupted for a sulficient time, a healthier moral action supervenes — the 
charm is broken — the intemperate is awakened to a new code of sensations — from the tears of joy, 
which are shed around linn, he gathers the conviction that he is not utterly despised. 'I'be 
neglected wife dares to hope for brighter days — his little ones shake off their terror and climb once 
mo’re upon the father’s knee — the God of^ all pity vouchsafes a smile of approbation — the poor, 
pitiable drunkard gathers up his fallen respectability — lakes a new departure for the voyage of life 
— becomes a faithful husband, an affectionate father, a child of God. 

Such frequently have been tlie eflects of the temperance pledge. What then is the real value of 
that sublimated philosophy, which would procrastinate the lirunkard’s reformation, until it cun be 
achieved, if at all, bv other and tardier means! Is it merciful and just to leave untried those simple 
means, which are si) perfectly intelligible, and have proved so eflicacious already, and patiently 
wait frr the rise and progress of religion in the drunkard’s soul ! If these inqttiries appear extraor- 
dinary to some of our readers, let it not be forgotten, that the svstem of association and the pledge 
are, by some, accounted sinful and abominable, inasmuch as they propose a reformation, by other 
meai.3 l .an those of divine appointment, to wit, the egency of bishops, priests, and deacons 1 Upon 
this principle, a whimsical prelate li.is affirmed, in a printed lecture, that “ the success of the tern- 
pemnce society would be the triumph of infidelity.” 


“ Too FAST AND TOO FAR !” Said good old Parson Whts tly, of 
Eddington, to his younger brother in the ministry, who had tliat 
day officiated in the old gentleman’s pulpit — “ too fast and tco far !” 

'‘Yes, sir,” replied the Rev. Mr. Merrick, of Shuffleton, “ I am 

afraid the friends of temperance are going too fast and too far. I 
am getting to be of the same opinion with my friend, the Rev. 

^ of- •, that it is high time for its real 

Iriends to ‘ drag the wheels^ of the temperance car.” — “ Then, my 
VOL. II. 5 


50 


TOO FAST AND TOO FAR; OR, 


young friend,” said Parson Wheatly, “ you will drag the wheels 
of a vehicle, which is annually carrying thousands of your fellow- 
creatures to happiness and to heaven. You have dram-shops in 
Shuffleton, I believe ;'and, if I recollect rightly, you have a distillery 
there.” — “ Yes, sir,” replied the Rev. Mr. Merrif^k, ‘‘we have 
four stores, whcie liquor n;ay be had, besides two taverns and a 
distillery.” — “Pretty well for a population of four or live hun- 
dred,” said the old gentleman ; “ and I suppose you have some 
drunkards.” — “ We have our share,” replied the other ; “ and I am 
fully of opinion, that one, perhaps two, of the stores miglit be dis- 
pensed with.” — “ My young brother,” said Parson Wheatly, after 
a sclemn pause, “ let us not trifle with the most solemn and impor- 
tant matters. You are the minister of Shuffleton ; it is your business 
to save souls ; your ordination vows are upon you ; and, in the great 
day, the account of your stewardship must be submitted to a 
righteous judge, who will not be mocked. You admit that you 
have drunkards in your parish ; your Bible tells you that drunkards 
shall not inherit the kingdom of God ; — say, then, can you go too 
fast or too far to save these wretched creatures from everlasting 
destruction?” — The young clergyman was not a little perplexed 
oy this prompt and faithful interrogatory. “ Pray, tell me,” con- 
tinued Parson Wheatly, “ what progress have you made in the 
temperance cause, in your village ? ” — “ Why, not much, sir,” said 
- Mr. Merrick; “we have not seen much good resulting from the 
experiment.” — “Have you made the experiment?” inquired the 
old man, with an incredulous expression ; “ how many have joined 
your temperance society?” — “ Why, sir,” replied the other, “ we 
have not been able to get up a society as yet. An attempt was 
made last year, but it did not succeed ; the people were opposed to 
it.” — “ And how was the minister?” said Parson Wheatly, draw- 
ing his chair close to that of Mr. Merrick, and fixing his little gray 
eyes upon those of his younger brother so keenly, that escape from 
such scrutiny became utterly impossible. The consciousness of his 
own subserviency to the will of his parishioners, caused the Rev. 
Lysander Merrick to blush for shame before his uncompromising 
brother, whose years and high standing afforded abundant justifi- 
cation for his plain dealing. “Well, well, brother Merrick,” 
continued he, “ since you have not seen the good effects of this 
experiment, as you call it, in your own parish, you shall judge of 
them in mine. Three years ago, the friends of temperance broke 
ground in this village. They scattered the seed with a liberal hand ; 
the best efforts of the husbandman have not been wanting ; and 
God has given the increase. The general mfluence of the re^orma- 


THE COOPFil AND THE CURRIER. 


51 


tion is very apparent in the manners and habits ti our people. 
Those, who are prospered in their basket and store, are more ready 
to impart to the temperate poor, than to drunken mendicants. On 
the other hand, many intemperate men, having sacrificed their idols, 
and taken up anew the implements of honest industry, in some 
department of agricultural or mechanical labor, have ceased to be 
needy, and are contented to be poor. The Gospel may as profitably 
be preached to the tenants of a mad-house, as to a congregation of 
drunkards. That delightful calm, which is commonly a direct con- 
sqquence of the reformation, in any village in which it thrives, pre- 
pares the way of the Lord. In Eddington it may truly be proclaimed, 
that righteousness and peace have kissed each other. Our church 
enrols among its cherished and ‘respected members several indi- 
viduals, who, three years ago, were irreligious and intemperate men. 
It is highly interesting to contemplate that honest and harmless 
competition, that provocation to good works, which is frequently 
exhibited among the reformed. Those, who formerly struggled for 
no other palm of victory than the reputation of drinking the largest 
quantity of rum, are now ambitious to excel in their respective crafts, 
or in the cultivation of their farms. I could exhibit many individual 
examples, in illustration of these remarks. To-morrow, wdien you 
return to Shuffleton, I will ride with you a mile or two upon your 
way, and show you a couple of families, now residing under the 
same roof, in perfect harmony. They are temperate, religious, 
frugal, industrious, and happy. Three years ago, they were among 
the most intemperate and quarrelsome of my parishioners.” 

After their evening’s repast, Mr. Merrick expressed a wish to 
hear some account of the families, whom they were to visit on the 
morrow. “ George Webber, a cooper, and Peter Bailey, a currier, 
married sisters,” said Parson Wheatly. “ They became very in- 
temperate young men. Soon after their marriages, which took place 
upon the same evening, a terrible quarrel arose between them ; one 
sued the other; each employed a lawyer; and, for four years, the 
action was continued, appealed, ruled out of court and ruled in again, 
tried again and again for non-agreement of the jury, and finally 
gotten before the full court upon points of law. During these four 
years, Webber and Bailey, the cooper and the currier, made an 
incalculable sacrifice of money, time, and temper. It repeatedly 
happened, that, whilst the lawyers were arguing upon the merits, 
Webber and Bailey w'ere fighting upon the common. They left no 
means of reciprocal annoyance unemployed. It w'as reaTiy a pity, 
that the sum total in dispute, which had produced this domestic 
feud, and prolonged it for four years, had not been a matter of 


62 


TOO FAST AN1> TOO FAR; OR, 


greater importance. The whole amount was two tnd fourpence, 
the difference between a ten-gallon keg and a calf-skin. The cooper 
and the currier were extensively connected by the bonds of blood 
and marriage ; and there were few persons in Eddington, who had 
kent entirely aloof from this unpleasant controversy. Lancaster and 
York followed their red and white roses ; and the good people of 
our village were, at one time, pretty equally divided, one half de- 
claring for the keg, and the other for the calf-skin. No human 
being could foresee the termination of this two-and-fourpenny uproar. 
It occasioned not only alarming results, but some that were exceed- 
ingly ludicrous. Webber and Bailey, at that time, nisided nearly 
opposite to each other ; and, adjoining Bailey’s shop, there was a 
small tannery. One March-meeting afternoon, when both were full 
of liquor, and, of course, the worse for it, Webber insulted Bailey, 
as he was standing near a pit in the tan-yard, and told him, if he 
would come over the wall into the road, he ’d knock in his head for 
him. Bailey, in his turn, called hard names, and offered, if Web- 
ber would step into the yard, to tan his hide handsomely. Webber 
sprang over the wall in a moment, and at it they went. After a 
few blows, which did little execution, for the parties were drunk, 
each strove to hurl the other into the pit, and both completely suc- 
ceeded. It was about seven feet deep, and full of hides and dirty 
water. Peggy Webber saw the conflict from her window ; and 
Biddy Bailey was attracted to her door by the shouting and cursing 
of the combatants. The ladies flew instantly to the assistance of 
their lords ; each, seizing her husband's antagonist, was seized upon 
in turn ; and, almost immediately, they were all four bouncing and 
floundering in the tan-pit. It was the more unfortunate", as it was 
a holiday, and all parties were dressed in their best apparel. Some 
of the neighbors soon came to their relief, and they emerged from 
the, vat somewhat cooler than they went into it. These men pro- 
ceeded in their evil courses until employment and reputation were 
totally lost. Bailey's wife was herself becoming a tippler. Peggy 
'W'’ebber was never known to seek solace from the bottle. There is 
some consolation, probably, in tears, and poor Peggy took it out in 
crying. George used to scold and threaten her, and then she would 
run off, for half a day, with her baby, and seek a temporary asylum 
with some charitable neighbor. Bailey was naturally obstinate and 
pugnacious, and rum made him necessarily more so. ‘ If my wife ’a 
abed when 1 get home,’ he has been heard to say, while reeling, at 
a late hour, from the dram-shop, ‘ I ’ll beat her ; for what right har. 
she to go to bed afore I gets home and has my supper? and, if I 
find her a setting up, I ’ll beat her, as sure as I live ; for what right 


THE COOPER AND THE CURRIER. 


53 


has she to be setting- np, arter midnight, a burning c ut fire and can- 
dles?’ — Rum, operating upon a very different temperament in 
Webber, produced different effects. He was, by nature, wild, 
scheming, visionary. It commonly reduced him to a condition 
scarcely distinguishable from insanity. He had a younger brother, 
who was an industrious, temperate sli ip-carpenter. Webber, upon 
one occasion, when crazy with liquor, went into the grave-y ard, 
and, entering a tomb, brought forth a skull, and, carrying it tc the 
ship-yard, exhibited it before the workmen, of whom his brother wia 
one. ‘Whose skull is it?’ inquired this young man. — ‘I s'pr.ie 
it’s father’s,’ said Webber, ‘for I took it out of his coffin, ! ’m 
sure.’ 

“ Webber and Bailey,” continued Parson Wheatly, “ were still 
young men, though strongly marked with every ordinary token of 
intemperance. They absented themselves from meeting, and studi- 
ously avoided me upon all occasions. In short, they were, to all 
common observation, irreclaimable, when the temperance reh rm 
began to be a topic of interest in our village. — But you shall see 
with your own eyes, Mr. Merrick, and hear with your own ears. 
They have entirely reformed ; and, with their wives and their chil- 
dren, constitute one of the most united and pious families in my 
parish.” — “ It will be needful for me to start at an early hour,” 
replied Mr. Merrick; “and, I fear, before it would be convenient 
to pay them a visit.” — “ If you are up before the cooper and cur- 
rier,” said Parson Wheatly, “ you will be up long before the sun.” 

The next day, at an early hour, the two clergymen rode forth 
together. It was a fine September morning. They had proceeded 
about a mile and three quarters on their way. — “Stop,” said Par- 
son Wheatly, as they approached the opening of a hickory wood, 
“do you hear that sounds” — “ What is it?” said his companion. 
— “ Why, it is just as I told you ; that rub a dub dub is the cooper’s 
reveille; he is driving a hoop, and you see the sun is but just risen. 
Let us move slowly towards the cottage. You see the busy house- 
wife’s signal — the smoke is curling from the chimney top ; and, I 
day say, the johnnycakes are already at the fire. There, Mr. Mer- 
rick, look at that white cottage, with green blinds, and a pretty 
garden before it. It is provided, as you see, by the double doors, 
for two families. That is the residence of the cooper and the cur- 
rier. Three years ago, it was a perfect hovel, whose fallen fences, 
and broken windows, proclaimed its occupant to be a drunkard. Ho 
was so. It was the property of old Bill Cleverly, who died, cursing 
the temperance folks with his latest breath.” — The chaise drew up 
in front of the cooper’s shop. “ Good morning, Mr. Webber,” said 

VOL. II. 5* 


54 


TOO FAST AND TOO Fi. R ; OR, 


Parson Wheatly. — “Ah, bless me, parson” — rub a dvh dvh^ 
“you are out early,” dub dub a dub — “ going to Shuffleton, I 
s’pose, with Mr. Merrick ” — rub dub a dub. — “ No, we have come 
to pay you and Mr. Bailey a short visit, Mr. Webber.” — “Veiy 
much obliged to ye, parson,” rub a dub dub — rub a dub dub, 
“ There, I b’lieve that hoop ’ll stick. Come, walk in, Peggy ’ll be 
rejoiced to have ye take breakfast with us — sorry brother Bailey 
and his wife have gone to the city — went off by dawn o’ day.” — • 
The clergymen endeavored to excuse themselves from taking break- 
fast, but Peggy was importunate, and the cooper assured them, that 
his boy, Eli, had caught some fine pickerel, on the preceding Sat- 
urday afternoon, and that they were, at that moment, in the spider. 
They, accordingly, were prevailed on to partake of the cooper’s 
repast. Webber then produced the family Bible, and read a chap- 
ter ; and Parson Wheatly made a prayer. — When he had concluded, 
he resumed his seat, and inquired of his host, if he were so much at 
>eisure, that morning, that he could conveniently give them a small 
part of it. — “ With all my heart. Parson Wheatly,” said he, “ if I 
can be useful, for I can drive the job I have in hand, a little further 
into the evening.” — “Mr. Webber,” said Parson Wheatly, “T 
have been giving my brother Merrick, some account of the happy 
effects of the temperance reform in our village. T well know how 
openly you, and your brother Bailey, are in the habit of exhibiting 
your own conversion, as an inducement to others ; and, if you will 
do me the favor to give Mr. Merrick some little account of it, I shall 
be much obliged to you. The effect of such a narrative may be 
beneficial elsewhere.” 

“ Why, gentlemen,” said the cooper, with a grave expression 
upon his features, “ I shall bless the day when the reformation came 
into Eddington, and so will Peggy.” — Peggy Webber had removed 
the breakfast table to one side of the apartment, and, with a baby in 
her arms, had drawn her chair into the circle. — “ Brother Bailey 
and I have often said,” continued the cooper, “ that, if we had n’t 
turned about just as we did, we should have been, as like as not, in 
tie drunkaid’s grave, by this time. We used to have terrible 
q larrels, and all about nothing. Rum was at the bottom of them 
all. I don’t really think we should have had any bickering, if it 
Hadn’t been for rum. The first time we fell out, we were fuddled, 
both of us ; and we went on from bad to worse, till there was nr 
kind of ill turn that Bailey would n’t do me, and I was n't behind 
him in any sort of mischief. Our wives were separated from each 
other, and there was a complete family quarrel. Bailey’s wife and 
he had a terrible time of it ; she took to liquor, and he handled her 


THE COOPER AND THE CURRIER. 


55 


roug:hly enough. That poor woman,” said he, poii.ting to his wife, 
“ had a hard time of it, too ; but she never took a drop of the vile 
poison. She never gave me an unkind word in her life; and, if I 
ever lifted my finger against her, in anger, it must have been when 
I was crazy with liquor.” — “ You never did, George,” said Peggy 
Webber. — “ Well, I am grateful,” continued her husband, “that 
I have not that sin against me. However, it was bad enough. We 
got to be very poor, and I got to be very cross. When I was ill- 
natured, Peggy used to cry ; and, when I was only melancholy, she 
used to come and sit down by me, and say all sorts of comforting 
things ; and. Whenever she thought it would do, she would urge me 
not to drink any more spirit. I lost all iny custom, and we parted 
with the principal part of our furniture. Our house got to be full 
enough of misery, if it was emptied of everything else. I couldn’t 
pay my rent any longer, and our landlord began to talk pretty 
roughly, and threatened to turn us out. I heard there was a good 
chance for coopers at New Orleans, and asked Peggy if she was 
willing to go. She said yes, if I thought it the best course, but 
that she didn’t see why we mightn’t get on here, as we used to. 
I told her we could stay here, and live on bread and water. She 
replied, that she should be truly happy to do so, if I would give up 
spirit ; that she knew it made me poor and wretched, and that this 
made her so ; and that she did not believe our misery would be 
lessened by a change of residence, but by a change of habit, which 
could be as well made here as anywhere else. I was not so de- 
graded as not to feel the force of what Peggy said. 

“ My wife’s father and mother were dead. There was a shrewd, 
honest, old Quaker, in our village, — you know who I mean. Par- 
son Wheatly — old friend Boynton, as we call him — he was a 
very intimate friend of my wife’s father, and took an interest in his 
children, and used to visit at Bailey’s house and mine, till matters 
came to a very bad state. He was very fond of Peggy always. He 
advised her to persuade me to go and hear a temperance lecture. I 
went twice ; and, though I had nothing to say against tiie lecturer, 
I couldn’t help smiling to think how little he knew of the force of 
a tippler’s habits. Pie seemed to think a drinking man could throw 
them off, as easily as he could his old shoes. I knew better, as I 
thought, for I had tried. I ’ve promised Peggy a hundred times, 
when I went out in the morning, that I wouldn't touch a drop, and 
I meant to keep my promise too, but I ’ve come home drunk at 
night, for all that. 

“ At the time I was speaking of, when the landlord threatened to 
turn us out, and our best prospects were about as black as a thun 


56 


TOO FAST AND TOO FAR; OR, 


«]ci -cloud, Peg-^y urged me to make a visit to old friend Boynton, 
and ask his counsel. I felt rather awkward about it, for I had 
avoided the old gentleman of late ; and, whenever I met him, I had 
put on a sort of swaggering gait, which a drunkard occasionally 
assumes to show his independence. I could n’t refuse Peggy’s 
request, however; and, besides, I felt as though I ’d give the world, 
if I had it, to be able to leave off; so I went to see the old Quaker. 

“ I made my visit in the morning, and that I might appear decent, 
I had not taken a dram since the forenoon of the preceding day. I 
found the old gentleman at home. He relieved me of all my awk- 
ward feelings, in an instant, by his kind treatment. ‘ Ah, friend 
Webber,’ said he, ‘ I am glad to see thee ; thee hast not made me a 
visit for a long time ; how is Peggy, thy wife, and thy little one?’ 
• — I told him they were tolerably well, and that Peggy had sent hex 
respects to him. — ‘ Peggy was always a good child,’ said he, ‘ and 
she maketh thee a good help mate, friend Webber, doth she not?’ 

— ‘ A thousand times better than I deserve,’ said I, ‘ as you well 
know, Mr. Boynton. If I did n't know how kindly you feel to my 
poor wife, I could n’t have come as I have to ask you to help me.’ 

— ‘And pray, friend W’’ebber,’ said the old man, ‘ what wouldst 
thee have me to do? Thy wife's father was my friend, when I was 
a boy, when the heart is like softened wax, and impressions are 
made deeply. There are people in the world, as thee well knowest, 
friend W ebber, whom it is hard to serve, but Peggy is not of that 
number, and if I can ’ — ‘I have not come a begging,’ said I, inter- 
rupting him ; ‘ I have not come to ask for money, meat, fire, or 
clothes ; and yet I have come to ask you to assist me to pay off the 
heaviest debt that a man can owe to a fellow-mortal.’ — ‘And pray 
what may be the nature of thy debt, friend Webber?’ said the 
Quaker, evidently with a little distrust as to the condition of my 
mind, and the real object of my visit. — ‘ I will tell you, sir,’ said I. 
‘ When I courted my wife, I made her fair promises, such as most 
men make on such occasions, to be kind to her, and do all things to 
make her happy. These promises I have broken. When I mar- 
ried her, she had a little property, which you, as her guardian, had 
considerably increased : this property I have squandered. She took 
me for a sober man, and I have proved a drunkard. I have abused 
her kindness and good nature, yet she has never given me a har.sh 
word or an angry look. Many times, when I had provided nothing 
for dinner, and supposed her without a mouthful for herself and her 
children, she has sent little Eli to find me, and let me know that 
dinner was ready ; and, when I have returned, not unfrequently from 
the grog-shop, I have found her, if not cheerful, always kind, and 


THE COOPER AND THE CURRIER. 


57 


glad to have me come home, for I have always loved her, however 
I have neglected ray duty towards her and the children. Peirgy, 
somehow or other, always found something for dinner, a few roasted 
potatoes or a dish of dandelions, and, after Eli got to be old enough 
to catch fish, which are plenty in the pond, we had no lack of 
them in their season. At such times, I have always felt heartily 
ashamed of myself, and have solemnly vow'ed, again and again, that 
I would never touch another drop of spirit. But the smell of it, or 
the sight of it, or the very thought of it, has crowded my good res- 
olutions aside, and, in a day or two, I have returned home intoxi- 
cated. Now, sir, if I could only cure myself of this dreadful habit, 
I could be happy, and so would Peggy. If there was no spirit, I 
could earn money and keep it. But I feel unable to resist the 
temptation, that is to be found at every corner. Rum has ruined 
me. I have disappointed my customers so often, that I have lost 
them all. I ha-^ nothing to do, and Roby, our landlord, has warned 
us out, Peggy has been anxious that I should come and talk with 
you, and take your advice; though I don’t see how that will be 
like to help me.’ — ‘ Thee talkest well and wisely, friend Webber,’ 
said the Quaker : ‘ I have often grieved for thee and thine, and have 
long hoped, that thee w'ouldst come to reflect, as it seemeth thee 
has done, upon the fatal consequences of thy had habit. I thank 
thee sincerely, friend Webber, for the confidence thee seemest to place 
in me, and thee shalt in no wise be the worse for it. Thee hast a 
just view of this matter, and thy feelings are right, and thee wishest 
heartily to reform ; now why dost thee not put thy name to the tem- 
perance pledge ? I was w^ell pleased to see thee at the lecture about 
the middle of the fourth month,’ — ‘ Oh, sir,’ said I, ‘I cannot do 
that, for T should never be able to keep clear of the temptation : I 
should certainly break rny word', and be worse off than I was before. 
I dare not trust myself, Mr. Boynton. I don’t think I could leave 
off for any length of time, unless I was compelled to do so, in some 
way that I cannot foresee.’ — ‘ Verily,’ said the Quaker, after a long 
I)ause, ‘ thy case is an interesting one, friend Webber, and I think 
better of thee, than if thee hadst a vain confidence in thyself and thy 
powers of resistance. I cannot advise thee to any course, until I 
have considered thy matter more fully. To-morrow will be the 
Sabbath ; wilt the# call and see me again on the evening of the 
Monday following?' — ‘ I will, sir,’ said I. — As I was rising to 
depart, the old gentleman took my hand, and holding it in both of his, 
looked me steadily m the fi.ce, with such an expression, as a kind 
father would bestow upon a child, whose welfare is very dear to 
.him. — ‘Friend Webber,’ said he, ‘wilt thee oblige me in one 


58 


TOO FAST AND TOO FAR; OR. 


thingT — ‘Very gladly, sir,’ said I, ‘if it is in my power.’ — 

‘ Well, then,’ said he, ‘ as I wilh thee to receive such counsel as 1 
may give thee, in a profitable condition of mind, wilt thee promise 
me to forbear from tasting any intoxicating liquor till I see thee on 
Monday evening.’ — ‘ I ’ll give you my word and honor, sir,’ said I, 
‘ that I will not touch a drop.’ — ‘ And may the Lord help thee,’ 
said the old man, as he pressed my hand .with great earnestness. 

“ I felt better for my visit. I found that I bad a friend, for Peg- 
gy’s sake at least, who did not utterly despise me. I kept my 
word with the old gentleman, and knocked at his door on Monday 
evening, with something like the confidence of an honest man. He 
opened it himself. — ‘ I am right glad to see thee,’ said he ; ‘ sit 
thee down. Well, hast thee kept thy promise!’ — ‘Yes, sir,’ I 
replied. — ‘Thee hast not tasted spirit since I last saw thee!’ — 
‘ Not a drop, sir,’ said I. — ‘I thought so,’ he replied ; ‘ thee look- 
est better than I have seen thee for a long time. Dost thee feel any 
the worse for it, friend Webber!’ — ‘ No, sir,’ said I ; ‘ I feel bel- 
ter and happier.’ — ‘ Well, now I must tell thee,’ said the old gen- 
tleman, ‘ that I have been so much engaged since our last meeting, 
that thy matter has not occupied my attention so fully as it ought. 
I have had much upon my hands in connection with our conference, 
which takes place on Wednesday, and from which I shall not return 
till Thursday. On the evening of that day, I will endeavor to pre- 
pare for thee, and in the mean while, thee wilt promise me to 
abstain until that time.’ — I gave him my promise and took my 
leave. 

“ In the interim I began to feel the want of occupation ; and, hav- 
ing foreclosed myself from seeking it at the grog-shop, I endeavored 
to find it in my own.” 

When George Webber had reached this part of his narrative, he 
perceived that Peggy was deeply aflfected. A few tears had fallen 
upon her infant’s hand, which the child raised towards its mother, 
with a smile of wonder upon its features, while its eyes were turned 
inquiringly upon hers. The incident had attracted the attention of 
the clergymen. — “ You are thinking of old times, Peggy,” said 
her husband. — “ Yes, George,” she replied, “ I can never forget 
that week, nor how I felt, when I told Eli to go over to the tavern 
and ask you to come home to dinner, and he told me you had been 
sitting at work on the shaving horse ever since breakfast. I always 
had a fondness for music, but I never listened to any one half .sfe 
sweet as the rub a dub dub, that you kept up upon your barrels aftei 
your return from visiting good old friend Boynton.” 

Mr. Merrick, who had become exceedingly interested in the coop 
er’s story, begged him to proceed. 


THE COOPER AND THE CURRIER. 


69 


“ Well, gentlemen,” said he, “ when Thursday evening came; 
I went once more to Mr. Boynton’s house. He received me aa 
kindly as ever. ‘Thee lookest so well, friend Webber,’ said he, 
‘ that I need not ask thee if thee hast kept thy word.’ — ‘ I have 
kept it, sir,’ said I. — ‘ And is not thy home pleasanter, and thy 
wife happier?’ — ‘Oh yes, sir,’ I replied, — ‘have you made up 
your mind, Mr. Boynton, as to any course which would be best for 
me.’ — ‘ I owe thee an apology,’ said he, ‘ for thus putting off the 
full and final consideration of thy matter ; but, if my life be spared, 
and thee wilt call on me on Monday morning, I will surely give 
thee my advice. — We have killed a pig, friend Webber, and my 
wife will have thee take along a roasting-piece for Peggy. — 
Thee wilt keep thy promise, I trust, until we meet on Monday.’ — 
1 thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, and, having renewed 
my promise, I returned to my family. 

“ As I was sitting at my work, it suddenly occurred to me, that 
I had already reformed, without knowing it. I sat for a few mo- 
ments upon my shaving horse, marvelling at my own stupidity, in 
not having understood the old gentleman’s drift before. I had not 
supposed it possible to abstain for twelve hours, and yet I had 
already tried the experiment successfully for nearly nine days ; and, 
when I marked the increased happiness of my poor wife, and the light- 
ness of my own spirits, I resolved within myself, that it should be 
something more than a nine days’ wonder. I had n’t been inside the 
meeting-house for about a year. Saturday night, after I had shut 
up the shop, I washed myself up nicely, and, when I went into the 
house, I told Peggy, if my coat wasn’t torn so badly, I’d go to 
meeting with her next day. ‘ Why, George,’ said she, ‘ I ’ll set 
up till morning to mend it, if you ’ll go.’ — ‘ Do go, daddy,’ said 
Eli, and running out, he got my bettermost shoes, and began to 
scrub ’em up for Sunday. I remember your text, that morning. 
Parson Wheatly, and I applied it to my own case — Let us not be 
weary in well doing, for in due season we shall reap, if we faint 
not. 

“On Monday morning I went to see my landlord, Mr. Roby; 
and, when I told him that I had left off spirit and meant to work, he 
agreed to wait for his rent. 

“ I did not go that morning to see Mr. Boynton, and, in the after- 
noon, he came, of his own accord, to visit me. — He found me hard 
at work. ‘ Well, friend Webber,’ said he, ‘ thee didst not keep thy 
appointment. I hope thee hast kept thy promise.’ — ‘ Yes, .sir,’ 
said I, ‘ I have kept my promise, and I trust, by God’s help, to 
keep it to the end. If I can keep it for ten days, I begin to think 


60 


TOO FAST AND TOO Fx. R 


I can keep it for ten years, and to the end of my life ; and such, 1 
suppose, though I did not understand you at first, is the substance of 
the advice you intended to give me.’ — ‘ Yea, verily, friend Web- 
ber,’ said he, with a benevolent smile, ‘ I can do no m<^re for thee 
than thou hast done for thyself. If all, who arc given to strong 
drink, would make the effort, as thee hast done, the path of refor- 
mation would be found much easier than it is supposed to be * 

“ Good old friend Boynton spread the news of my reformation, 
and 1 soon had as much business as I could turn my hands to ; and 
from that time to this, Peggy has had no lack of that music that 
she tells you she is so fond of. 

If I am a better man than I was, your preaching. Parson 
Wheatly, with God's blessing thereon, has had its share in making 
me so. About two months after I left off spirit, Peggy and I went 
over together to see brother Bailey and his wife. He was sick in 
bed, and l)oth were quite sober. They were greatly surprised at our 
visit. Peggy went up and kissed her sister, and I shook hands with 
them both. I told them that we had come to ask their forgiveness 
for all the hard thoughts, words, and deeds, which we had ever 
indulged or committed towards them. They behaved better than I 
had supposed they would. You know, Parson Wheatly, how it has 
all come round. It took a long time to bring it all right, but we 
have all four been members of the temperance society for years, and 
I believe there are few better friends than brother Bailey and I ; and 
if there is no happiness under this roof, there is none in Eddington.” 

The Rev. Mr. Merrick became a devoted friend of the temperance 
cause. At parting, he assured Mr. Wheatly that he was desirous 
of commencing the reformation in Shuffleton as speedily as possible ; 
and the haste with which he finally drove off from the door, produced 
an impression, that, where the bodies and souls of immortal crea- 
tures are at stake, he had come to the conclusion, that a minister of 
the gospel is in no great danger of going too fast and too far. 


THE STAGE-COACH 


Tbe pyrotecbnist, after an exhibition of single rockets, until he has reason to bcliere, that 
puoiic taste ma; possibly demand some change, occasionally throws them uv oy the half d«ssn 
together. In the performance which is now presented to the reader, we have followed this laudab.a 
• xample. 

The substantial parts of all the stories, which are narrated in the present Tolume, under the title 
o' iis STAGE-COACH, have been communicated to the writer, at different periods, in stages, 
steam-boats, and rail-road cars. They have been selected, for the present publication, from an 
uisxhaustible mass of materials, gathered in a similar manner. They have been thus selected, o.t 
account of the entire respectability of tbjse individuals, from whose lips they were received. 

More than one of the tales, which are now presented, will, doubtless, appear extraordinary, and 
even improbable, to many readers. We are daily instructed, however, that the legitimate bounda- 
ries of truth are sufficiently comprehensive, to contain much that is wondeiful and apparently im- 
probable. In every instance, wherein a reasonable doubt might be supposed to arise in the reader’s 
mind, the writer of these tales has corresponded with those, by whom the stories were originally 
UJi-d, and obtained from them a written narrative of the important facta. 

It is the object of the present publication to illustrate the truth, that there is no protection against 
the evils of intemperance in age, or sex, or condition ; — that the holy office is occasionally brought 
into contempt by intemperate clergymen ; and that to Him, who is of purer eyes than to behold 
iniquity, the sin of drunkenness is equally offensive, whatever the means may be, whereby it is 
produced. 


PART FIRST. 

Having tried the strength of my lungs and the patience of an 
indulgent assembly, for more than an hour, and having engaged my 
passage in the coach, which starts at three o’clock in the morning, 
for the village of , I returned to my inn. and, request- 

ing the bar-keeper to have me called in season, was shown to 
my apartment. I perceived, with some surprise and regret, that 
there were three single beds in the chamber, and one barely large 
enough to accommodate two persons of moderate stature, who were 
sufficiently disciplined to be content with their respective allotments. 
The single beds were occupied. — Upon our entry, — “ ’Pon my 
voord,” exclaimed one of the sleepers, jumping out of bed, “ it ish 
de stage come for me ; vat ish de time, sarel” — “No, no,” said 
the bar-keeper; “ it ’s not eleven yet ; your stage will not be along 
for several hours.” — “ Sare, I tank you for your politeness ; a leetil 
more sleep I vill ’ave ;” and he stepped back into his bed, with a 
which, however graceful it might have been, in the costume 
of the drawing-room, appeared supereminently ridiculous in his robe 
dc unit. — “ Heigh-ho !” said another, as he turned over, somewhat 
impatiently, in his bed. — “ You have no objection, I suppose, sir,” 
said the bar-keeper, addressing me, “to sleeping with another 
gentleman.” — “I have, sir/’ said I ; “ and you know well enough, 
vbL« II. 6 


62 


THE STAGE-COACH. . 


that you have no right to suppose any such thing ; for I er gaged a 
single bed, and you promised me that I should have it.” — “ Why, 
yes, sir,” he replied; “but it’s court week, and we are very full 
to-night. To-morrow night, sir, we can give you a single bed, and 
a room to yourself.” — “ My friend,” said I, “ I cannot convenient- 
ly wait till to-morrow night, before I go to bed, for I am very weary. 
I shall pay your bill, when you call me in the morning, and, accord- 
ing to your engagement, you must permit me to sleep alone.” — 
“ Very well, sir,” said the bar-keeper, shutting the door, as he 
retired, with unnecessary violence. — “ You sarve ’im right, sare,” 
cried the Frenchman, for such his dialect proclaimed him to be , 
“ vat he promish you, dat he must parform : dat ish de law of 
France ; so it ish in England, and de Low Countries, and indeed, 
sare, wherever I has been. I vill be your vitness, sare, wiz great 
pleasure, of all vat he say. If I vas not in bed, sare, I would have 
de satisfaction to hand you my card, but de morning vill do.” — 
“Yes, yes,” said I, desirous of getting rid of this troublesome fel- 
low, “the morning will do.” — I was soon undressed, and in bed. 
I turned upon my side, in the very centre of it. For the purpose 
of satisfying any new-comer, that, in the language of certain 
placards on the doors of manufactories, there was no admittance, 
except on business, I disposed my limbs, as nearly as possible, in 
the form of the very last letter in the alphabet. — I was striving 
to sleep, when I was again aroused by my unknown friend : — 
“ Monsieur, — mistare, — I regret I cannot call your name, sare, — 
you vill excuse de omission.” — “What do you want?” said I, 
with some impatience. — “Vat Ivant?” said he, “netting, sare, 
only about de card ; I go off so long afore de day, dat I vas fear I 
should not be able to hand you my card, wizout disturbing your 
rapose.” — “ I care nothing about the card,” said I ; “I wish to 
sleep, if possible.” — “ So do I,” cried the person who had shown 
some impatience upon our first entry, “ and I ’ll be much obliged to 
you, mister, if you’ll stop your outlandish powwow till daylight.” 
— “ Vary veil, sare,” cried the Frenchman; and, after humming 
the fraction of a tune, for a few seconds, to conceal his initatioii, 
he remained perfectly silent. 

During this period, the occupant of the other singJIe bed, an 
exi)erienced traveller, no doubt, gave intelligible evidence of his 
profound slumber, by snoring energetically. I was totally unaccus- 
tomed to this nocturnal annoyance, and found it impossible to sleep. 
I had not remained long, ruminating upon my ill fortune, when the 
p^reon who had silenced the Frenchman, struck in with his nasal 
baa^Qi in such an extraordinary manner, that, at first, I really 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


6S 


supposed it to be the performance of a waking^ wag, who finding 
sleep impracticable, had resolved, for his amusement, to mal e night 
as hideous as possible. Its long continuance, however, satisfied me 
that it was no joke, but an awful reality. Now and then, it was 
even alarmingly stertorous and apoplectic. The inspiration of one 
of these trumpeters was so precisely coincident with the expiration 
of the other, that the sound became perfectly continuous. We are, 
some of us, so constituted, that, when our troubles are not of an 
aggravated nature, misery will occasionally be converted into mirth. 
A exed and disappointed as I was, I found myself exceedingly dis- 
posed to laugh outright. At length, the loudest snorer suddenly 
suspended his operations, and the Frenchman, who, I had supposed, 
was fast asleep, exclaimed, “ Tank Haven, von of dem ish dead.” 
This stroke of humor was perfectly irresistible, and the loud laugh- 
ter, which it drew from me, awakened the whole group. “ What 
d’ye make sucb a noise for?” cried the stertorous gentleman; 
“ can’t you let a body sleep in peace?” — “ Veil, veil, sare,” cried 
the Frenchman, as he turned over, “ now, maype, ve vill tak a fair 
start vonce more.” 

The vis inerticB within me, which, for the present occasion, at 
least, may be translated the energy of drowsiness, enabled me to 
lock fast my senses, before the serenade recommenced. The 
powers of slumber seemed determined to make up, in profoundness, 
all which they had lost in time. The quality of sleep is often of 
more importance than the quantity. From such deep, deathlike 
slumber, it is exceedingly painful to be suddenly aroused. The 
sensation was eminently disagreeable, therefore, when I was awak- 
ened by a violent shake of the shoulder. I supposed I had overslept 
myself, and asked if the stage was ready. — “ I ’ve been trying to 
wake you, mister, for ten minutes,” was the reply ; “ and,! ’m most 
froze, standing in the cold. Won’t you jest move to your side of 
the bed.” — I now began to comprehend the case, and, rubbing my 
eyes, beheld an uncommonly corpulent man, who had undressed 
himself for the night. He had one foot on the frame of the bed 
and held the candle in his hand, which he was just ready to extin 
guish. — “Sir,” said I, “you have been imposed on. I have 
engaged this bed for myself, and shall not consent to your getting 
into it.” — “ This is pretty tough,” said he ; “I ’m froze to death, 
a’most.” — “You had better call the inn-keeper, and get him to 
accommodate you elsewhere,” said I. — “I ’m fear’d he ’s gone to 
bed, and all shot up,” said the poor fellow; “ howsomesever, I’ll 
try.’* — He did try, and he certainly succeeded. He rushed into 
the centre of the entry, in his undress, and holloaed at the top ot his 


64 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


luno-s : — “ Holloa ! Mr. Stulfem, holloa ! This ere man won’t let 
me get into bed, holloa! holloa!” — The disturbance which fol- 
lowed, so far as I could judge, was rather extensive. I heard voices 
in all parts of the house ; doors were opened in all directions. “ Is 
it fire ?” inquired a female voice. — “ What ’s to pay there ?” cried 
the host. — “ Stage come, — hey?” cried several persons at once. 
At length, the bar-keeper appeared, explained the cause of the dis- 
turbance, and led off his shivering customer to another apartment. 

We had scarcely recovered from this annoyance, before the cham 
ber door was opened by the porter with a light : — “ Eastern mail ’s 
coming, — hear the horn on the hill now, — French gentleman’s 
baggage ready ?” — “ Dat ish myself,” cried the Frenchman, leap- 
ing out of bed. — “ Where ’s your baggage, sir?” — “ Baggage? 
— vat you mean — de big tronk? — no, sare, me no have ’em. I 
vill bring down my baggage wiz myself, sare.” — “You ’ll have to 
make haste, — the mail only stops three minutes to shift horses.” — 
“Tree minnit ! — no more? — ’pon my voord !” — The little French- 
man made all possible expedition. In a short time, the porter’s 
voice was again heard at the door: — “All ready — mail can’t 
wait.” — “ Immadiately, sare,” cried the Frenchman; “whew, 
whew, whew, — come, Gabrielle.” Upon this signal, a lapdog 
sprang out of the bed, and shook its shaggy locks and tinkling bell. 
The Frenchman seized a little bundle, which probably contained the 
bulk of his earthly possessions, real, personal, and mixed, placed 
upon his left arm a leather fiddle-case, and the favorite Gabrielle, 
and, as he hurried from the room, stopped for an instant at my bed- 
side, to say, “ Sare, dis ish my card, vich I have de honor to pre- 
sent; adieu, monsieur.” Down ran the little Frenchman, and in a 
moment I heard the coach door close, the crack of the whip, and 
the rumbling of the wheels, as the vehicle rolled away over the 
rough, frozen ground. 

I looked at my watch ; — it was half past two o’clock. Half an 
hour remained to me, before the arrival of the northern stage. As 
I have always felt no inconsiderable degree of embarrassment and 
f.hagrin, when others, high or low, have been detained on account 
of my delay, I rose and began to dress myself. — I had just finished 
my toilet, and strapped my trunk, when the vehicle arrived. The 
porter met me at the door. “ Ay, sir,” said he, as he threw my 
baggage upon his shoulder, “ I wish all other folks was as punctual 
as your honor.” — “ Well, my friend,” I replied, “ if the past night 
is a fair sample of those which are to come, there will be little 
sleeping in this house, and you will, of course, be spared the trouble 
of waking your guests.” — It was extremely dark. A little per 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


65 


Bonal contact, as I entered the coach, assured me that there were 
other passengers there. I was much pleased to find that my favor 
ite seat was unoccupied. Having no partiality for a back seat, I 
'prefer to place myself where I shall be least liable to interruption, 
upon the subsequent introduction of elderly persons or females. I 
was soon firmly planted in a corner of the front seat, with my back 
towards the horses, and my right shoulder to the canvass. It was 
very cold ; the floor, however, was abundantly supplied with straw 
for the comfort of our feet ; and the coach was made as close as 
possible. Frosty morning,” said one of the company, shortly 
after w^e had started on our way. This, however, as Goldsmith 
pleasantly observes, in his history of the club of savans, having been 
addressed to no one in particular, no one felt himself bound to 
answer it. We had not ridden far, before the smell of brandy 
became very perceptible. 

The present /exhibition of any instrument, which has been em- 
ployed for the destruction of a friend or neighbor, is, of course, 
exceedingly revolting. I once knew an amiable woman, who was 
immediately reduced to a condition of palpable misery, by the slight- 
est effluvium of musk, because her infant child had been destroyed, 
though many years before, by its injudicious administration, under 
the direction of an unskilful physician. I have read, in a work of 
high reputation, an account of a gentleman, whose nervous system 
was by no means remarkably excitable on common occasions, but 
who instantly fainted, at the smell of opium, because his only 
daughter had fallen a victim to its accidental employment in a liquid 
form. These recollections presented themselves before my mind, as 
we rode along in silence, and in the dark. Wherefore is it thus? I 
inquired within myself. Why does not this disagreeable odor — 
which, by the way, was becoming more powerful every moment, as, 
in our closed vehicle, it was generated much faster than it could 
possibly escape — why does not this odor frequently produce the 
very same effects? Brandy has destroyed millions of mankind. 
Yet I have known a father, whom it had deprived of three children, 
and who still drank it with delight, while he invoked from on high, 
or, in more accurate language, from below, innumerable curses upon 
the temperance reform. I have known a childless widow, whose 
husband and children had been destroyed by this fatal beverage, still 
place the poisoned chalice to her lips, and apparently prefer its odor 
to that of the rose or the violet. And why is it thus? “^The ship- 
wreck of a hundred emigrants, and the loss of all their lives, would, 
for the moment, be less likely to abstract the attention of the busy 
world from their multiplied engagements and cares, than the fall and 

VOL. II. Q* 


66 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


consequent destruction of a single aeronaut, in the centre of some 
2Teat city. 'The first of these calamities occurs in the way of profit- 
able bu'siness, and the other is the result of an idle and hazardous 
experirT.ent. The first announcement of the bursting of a boiler, 
and the consequent death of a single human being, when circulated 
through the land, produced everywhere a sensation of astonishment 
and horror. Steam-boats were then mere problems, and locomotive 
engines upon rail-roads were unknown. But now they have become 
established, and are parts of our very mode of existence. They 
have virtually contributed to bring the ends of the earth as near 
again together, as they were before their employment, by an equiva- 
lent saving of time, in transitu. They are justly ranked among the 
most productive sources of emolument. To be sure, the loss of 
life, which they produce at the present day, is enormous ; but it 
seems to be considered of .ittle account, beyond a brief ejaculatory 
paragraph in some public journal, whose editor happens not to be 
interested in the stock. They are profitable, and that is enough. 
The indebtedness of the concern for so much human flesh and blood, 
sacrificed in its operations, is supposed to be suificiently balanced by 
the profit, which the speculation unquestionably yields. — Brandy, 
and all other intoxicating liquors, are articles of commerce. They, 
also, individually and collectively, have produced innumerable 
deaths. But there is a distinction to be considered here, which is 
obvious and broad : the application of steam power is eminently use- 
ful to mankind ; those who are engaged in such operations as are 
connected with its use, are not thereby impelled, as by an irresistible 
demon, to the commission of every crime; they are not necessarily 
plunged into every species of misery ; and, instead of being reduced 
to poverty, they are in the way of acquiring their daily bread. The 
very reverse of all this is true in regard to intoxicating liquor, for it 
is infinitely worse than useless as a beverage. Here, then, is an 
extraordinary condition of things. If the great mass of those, who 
traffic in intoxicating drinks, do not profess to be Christians, the 
great majority affect to be tenacious of their reputation as moral 
men ; and yet they stop not, for a moment, to count the loss of 
health, and property, and respectability, and life, temporal and 
eternal, which inevitably follows, as a consequence of their traffic. 
Many of these men, who would repel the general charge of immo 
rality, are, nevertheless, perfectly satisfied with a vocation like this. 
Their employment is lawful ; and the mass of wretchedness and loss 
of life, which follow, are matters to be settled between the con- 
sumer and his God ! — The end is not yet, thought I ; in the day 
of judgment, I cannot believe it will be determined precisely thus. 


THE STAGE-COACa 


67 


I continued to ruminate in this manner, as we rolled silently for- 
ward in the dark, until my cogitations were interrupted by a sound, 
precisely similar to that, produced by the sudden extraction of a cork 
from the mouth of a bottle. The noise manifestly originated within 
the vehicle, in which we were riding ; and in a very few seconds, 
the odor of the brandy-cask became more pungent than ever. It 
really appeared to me a measure of indecorum, amounting almost 
to audacity, in the present era of comparative purification, to travel 
with a brandy-bottle in a stage-coach, and deliberately to draw the 
cork and partake of its contents, in the company of others. After 
a short time, the effluvium became so exceedingly disagreeable, 
associated as it was with the conviction, that it came into my own 
nostrils, hot and reeking, and doubly distilled, from the gastric ap- 
paratus of some human being, that I resolved to let down the window 
of the carriage. — “ It is so close,” said I, suiting the action to the 
word, “ that I presume no one will object to a little fresh air.” — 
“ Dat ish a goot move, mynheer,” said one of the passengers, in a 
rough voice, whom, from his language and accent, I supposed to be 
a Dutchman. I have often remarked, that, when the suspicion of 
guilt is suddenly awakened, in a miscellaneous company, the offender 
is often the first to reply to any observation, which stimulates the 
consciousness of obliquity. — In the language of Paul, I “ tmAec? 
for day,'"’ that I might behold the visage of this barbarian, who had 
thus violated the rules of common decency. But, as I had no reason 
to expect its speedy approach, I rolled myself up in my cloak, and 
soon fell asleep. My slumber was once or twice partially inter- 
rupted, by a sort of imperfect consciousness, when the stage occa- 
sionally stopped upon its way. When I awoke, there was barely 
light enough to exainine my watch, and I was gratified to find I 
had, for nearly two hours, enjoyed unbroken slumber. I was now 
able to discover the general outlines of my fellow-travellers. Upon 
the back seat, were three females. Upon my left hand, and on the 
same seat with myself, were two of my own sex, and the middle 
seat was occupied by two others. Day now began to pour in upon 
us rapidly, and the dress and features of my companions were clearly 
visible. The reader may rest assured, that I kept a sharp look-out 
for the Dutchman. When any individual, whom we have never 
seen, has made an agreeable impression upon our minds, or the 
reverse, imagination delights to play the statuary, and executes a 
model of the original ; but how very frequently we are compelled to 
cast it down as faithless and unjust ! Upon the present occasion, 
however, I had ^n image of the Dutchman in my mind, which proved 
to be tolerably sorrect. In selecting him from the group, I had 


68 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


fixed my eyes upon a heavy, round-shouldered personage, appai 
ently about five and fifty years o^ age, sitting upon the middle seat , 
his complexion, though red enough, for one of intemperate haluts, 
was somewhat clearer than I should have expected. He wore a 
comfortable wrapper of huge dimensions, and sat with both hands 
resting on the top of an unpeeled hickory staff. His ample coun- 
tenmce had once been subjected to the ravages of the small-pox 
His eyes, which were uncommonly small, were placed in his head 
in the most unneighborly manner, and his dark, grizzly hair, which 
was very abundant, hung forth in every direction, from under a 
oroad-brimmed hat, not much the worse for wear. The still exjires- 
sion of his countenance was decidedly severe. I was not left long 
in doubt, if I had singled out the Dutchman. His little twinkling 
eyes no sooner encountered mine, than he exclaimed, in the same 
gruff voice, motioning with his head towards the coach window, 
“ He vill pe foine day.” — I replied simply by nodding assent, and 
we still rode on in silence. By his side, upon the same seat, and 
directly opposite to my left-hand neighbor, sat a well-dressed young 
man. He upon my left was a grave personage in black, who bore 
evident marks of ill health, and the one beyond, upon the same seat, 
was apparently a gentleman, and, as I conjectured, over seventy 
years of age. One of the females, who sat in that corner of the 
stage, which was diagonally opposite to mine, possessed uncommon 
comeliness of person. I judged her age to be about four or five and 
twenty. She had a Tuscan straw bonnet, prettily lined and trim- 
med, an exceedingly neat riding-cloak, with a boa round her neck, 
and a travelling-basket of wicker on her lap. Immediately next to 
her, sat a decently-dressed woman of forty, bearing in her coun- 
tenance those peculiar charaoteristics, which can never be mistaken, 
whether we encounter them in the over-peopled cellars and garrets 
of a city, or upon their secondary emigration to the far-away west, 
and which mark, beyond the possibility of misconception, a native 
of the Emerald Isle. The corner, directly opposite to me, was 
occupied by a much younger woman, who had still the marks and 
numbers of personal beauty. She was extremely pale, however, 
and dressed in the deepest mourning. 

The silence of our journey was finally broken by the elderly gen- 
tleman, who sat in the corner, on my left hand. — I attended your 
lecture last evening, sir,” said he, addressing himself to me; — 
“ there is still a great amount of intemperance in our country.” — 
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “undoubtedly there is; but I think we are 
apt to deceive ourselves, in regard to that £;!nount, because our 
attention is, at the present day, more likely tc be attracted by indi- 


THE STAGE-COACtt 


09 


vidual jases, than it was in former times.” While I uttered this 
reply, looked steadily at the Dutchman. He discovered not the 
slightest evidence of embarrassment, but instantly exclaimed, “ Dat 
ish de matter; von trunkard now look more pig, nor foorty ven 1 
vas a leetil poy.” — I was at first astonished at this fellow’s impu- 
dence, who was accustomed, as I entertained not the shadow of a 
doubt, to travel with his brandy-bottle in his pocket ; but I imme- 
diately recollected, that there are moderate drinkers, who, whatever 
may be the ultimate result, have not the slightast apprehension of 
ever becoming drunkards. This man, thought I, is of that number. 
— “I never fail,” continued the elderly gentleman, “to attend 
these lectures, for I think highly of the temperance reformation, as 
a grand moral machine ; and I have a sufficient reason, of a private 
nature, for bidding it God speed. Some lecturers deal in nothing 
but statistics from beginning to end ; others appear to think, that 
intemperance, and all its awful effects, are legitimate subjects for 
mirth. Now I cannot think so. When I was a boy, I used to 
laugh at the serpentine movement of a drunkard. I used to follow 
and hoot at him, as he staggered, and pelt him perhaps, when he 
fell in the mire. But, could I renew my youth and still retain my 
present knowledge, I should not have the heart to do so again. 
When I see a poor drunkard, at the present day, I follow him, in 
imagination, to his hovel of misery, — the trembling wife, the vic- 
tim of his diabolical career, appears before me ; I see his terrified 
children, as they fly at his approach, and I have no appetite for 
laughter.” — “ Poor childher ! dat ish roight, mynheer,” cried the 
Dutchman, as he raised his staff a few inches, still grasping the end 
of it with both hands, and bringing its lower extremity with some 
violence upon the floor. — This is an extraordinary creature, said I 
within myself. But I was still more perplexed, when, in an instant 
after, I saw him brush the tear from his eye. After all, it may be 
nothing but the brandy, thought I. — “ Sir,” continued the old gen- 
tleman, still addressing himself to me, “there is one particular, in 
w'hich I think you gentlemen, who lecture upon temperance, are 
strangely mistaken ; you direct your remarks exclusively to your 
own sex, as though you had the same notions of intemperance in 
women, which the Athenians entertained of parricide, and supposed 
the crime of drunkenness impracticable by females.” — “Why, 
.sir,” said the gentleman in black, who sat at my elbow, and wlio 
had taken no part in the conversation before. “ you will admit, that 
such cases are exceedingly rare.” — “ No. sir,” replied the elderly 
gentleman, “ I shall admit nothing but the truth, and it is by no 
means true hat such cases are exceedingly rare My experienco 


70 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


in ])ublic and private life, for many years, has made me acquainted 
with a great many intemperate women.” — At this moment, the 
Irish lady was seized wjth a violent fit of coughing. — “ Do you not 
think, sir,” inquired the gentleman in black, “ that such examples 
are rare, among the higher orders of society?” — “ As far as my 
experience has gone,” replied the other, “there are more drunken 
men, among the lower, than among the higher classes. I believe 
there are not so many drunken women in the lower ranks, as 
drunken men, but there are very many. Among the higher classes, 
I believe the proportion of the drunken women to the drunken men 
is relatively about the same. Every vice may be so qualified, and 
adorned, and subtilized, that its real essence may be as effectually 
concealed, as the principal ingredient in a quack nostrum, by the 
presence of some pungent, essential oil. Vice may thus pa.ss 
unchallenged, through the world. Now and then, some sturdy 
herald may cry. Who goes there! But such evidences of fidelity, 
in those high places, where sin has built itself a citadel, are not 
often the passports to favor and promotion. Drunkenness in high 
life, you must remember, is not so disgusting a spectacle. The 
wife of a common laborer, drunk with rum, stretched upon the floor 
of their dirty kennel, and surrounded by a group of filthy, starving 
children, is certainly a revolting object. But a fine lady, splendidly 
arrayed, who happens to be made garrulous, familiar, inarticulate, 
and at last sillily or stupidly drunk upon champagne, or whiskey 
punch, 01 Madeira, is not such an unattractive object after all.” — 
“ Pray, sxr,” again inquired the gentleman in black, “ what do you 
mean, by the word drunk, in these examples?” — “I mean this, 
sir,” replied the other : “ when a female is in such a condition, that 
she solicits or permits familiarities, by word or look, from the other 
sex, which she would not permit, and much less solicit, were it not 
for the champagne, she is then drunk. But this is not all, sir : go 
and ask any respectable female, who has seen much of gay, fash- 
ionable life, if the wine, and hot whiskey punch, and liqueurs, con- 
sumed by young girls, and old girls, and married ladies, at routs, 
assemblies, and balls, are not frequently used in such measure, as to 
disturb the functions of the brain and nerves in an obvious manner, 
and you may be sure of an affirmative answer.” 

During this conversation, the passengers, with a single exceplion. 
were extremely attentive to the old gentleman’s remarks, who spoke 
with the air of a man, who had witnessed the very effects, which he 
so naturally described. The pretty woman in the Tuscan straw 
had been sitting for some time with her eyes closed. — “Female 
drunkenness,” continued the elderly gentleman, ‘ is not confined to 


THE S-IAGE-COACH. 


71 


the two extremities of social life : there is a large proportion among 
the middling classes. Why, sir,” said he, “ I have seen a well- 
dressed voting female of that rank of society, go deliberately to a 
tavern oar, early in ihe morning, and take her dram, and have her 
brandy-bottle filled before she took her seat in the stage-coacli.” — 
“Tonder!” cried the Dutchman, rolling up his eyes. — At this 
moment, the young woman in the Tuscan appeared to awaken from 
her slumbers. She drew her cloak more closely about her neck, 
and seemed to become very suddenly engaged in the adjustment of 
her bonnet and curls. — “ Sir,” continued the old gentleman, whose 
experiences were like the contents of the widow’s cruise, “ I have 
knowm this very young woman, of whom I now speak, within half 
an hour from the time when she took her first dram at the bar, 
draw forth the stopper of the casket, that contained her jewel, and 
take another, as she travelled in the public coach.” — “ Vy, 
mynheer,” exclaimed the Dutchman, “ vat a salt herring of a 
woman dat must pe !” — “'Mister,” cried the young woman in the 
Tuscan, addressing the elderly gentleman, with an expression of ill 
nature, “ why can’t you let the women alone, and talk about the 
drunken men? there are enough to serve your turn, I ’m sure.” — 
“ If my remarks are unpleasant to you or any other person in the 
carriage,” replied he, with much suavity of manner, “I will cer- 
tainly not continue them.” — “I don’t care whether you do or 
not,” she rejoined; “it’s very ridiculous for )ou to tell about 
women’s drinking brandy in the stage. I don’t believe it. Here ’s 
three of us; now which was it?” — “I have made no accusation 
against any person present, my good woman,” replied the old gen- 
tleman. — “ Your good woman ! ” retorted the Tuscan ; “I’m not 
your good woman neither, by a great sight, and I guess now, mis- 
ter, you better mind your business, and hold your impudent slack.” 
— “ Shlack !” said the Dutchman ; “ vat ish dat?” as he lifted up 
his hands in amazement, and half timidly turned his head to behold 
the speaker. — The old gentleman made no reply, but his uncom- 
monly expressive countenance was full of things unutterable. — 
Here, then, was an tdaircissement. Of course I had done manifest 
injustice to the poor Dutchman, for which I would most cheerfully 
have craved his pardon. We rode on, for a few moments, in 
silence ; the interchange of glances among the company establishing 
the fact, that not a doubt remained in regard to the real nature of 
the case, or the identity of the guilty party. 

During the short silence, which ensued, I turned my eyes 
upon this young woman, whom I had thought so uncommonly 
pretty ; a marvellous change had taken place in her appearance, 


72 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


within a brief space, or the new associations, which had arisen in 
my mind in regard to her, had operated strangely upon my powers 
of vision. In her agitation, she had thrown her dress into some 
little disord^^r : her hair had fallen down ; and her bonnet, acciden- 
tally, or perhaps to avoid our scrutiny, had become drawn to ere 
side of her face. She seemed not to sit very firmly in her seat. 
Occasionally I obtained a fair view of her features. I could not 
doubt, that the brandy she had taken, upon an empty stomach, had 
already affected the brain and nerves. Her eyes had lost a portion 
of their brilliancy; her color was heightened to a remarkable 
degree undoubtedly in part from anger ; her lips were apart, and 
wore that dry, yet varnished appearance, which is not unusual with 
intoxicated persons ; and the general expression of her features 
was characterized by that air of defiance, which is not unfrequently 
exhibited by a guilty person, who, though conscious of being sus 
pected, is still confident in the insufficiency of the evidence against 
him. While I was occupied in contemplating her countenance, some 
movable article, upon the floor of the vehicle, now and then struck 
against my foot : I cast down my eyes to ascertain the cause, and 
observed a flat bottle, of that description, which, in the cant dialect 
of travellers, is called a pistol. It was about half full of some 
dark-colored liquor. 1 had no doubt that it was our fair Tuscan’s 
bottle, and that its contents were brandy. A rapid combination of 
circumstances instantly accounted for its present location on the 
floor ; her willow basket, to which I have already alluded, was pro- 
vided with a cover opening on each side ; it rested on her lap ; the 
jolting of the carriage, and the difficulty of keeping her balance, had 
canted the basket ; the cover, on the side towards me, had fallen 
open ; the bottle had escaped, and, sliding softly over her cloak, 
had fallen, unnoticed, upon the straw. I took it up, unobserved by 
her, and placed it in the corner of the carriage behind me. 

Our elderly companion, who had been completely silenced, by 
the unexpected harshness of the Tuscan’s retort upon him, felt him- 
self sufficiently strengthened, by this little incident, which occurred 
under his eye, to renew the conversation. “We are not far froii 
the inn, where we breakfast,” said he, looking at his watch ; “ I 
shall relish a dish of coffee, and those, who prefer brandy, I have 
no doubt, will be accommodated, for the temperance reform has 
effected very little here, among the hills.” — “ Mister,” said the 
Tuscan, “ I guess you love brandy as well as other folks, if 
you ’ll only have patience till you get to the tavern, you ’ll get a 
plenty, and I guess there ’s none any nearer.” — “ Young woman, 
I believe you are mistaken,” said I, holding up the brandy-bottia 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


71 


before her eyes. — The effect was electrical. It would be no easy 
matter to describe the expression of her features at that moment 
She uttered not a syllable. Amazement, that her own brandy-bot- 
tle should have gotten into my possession, and be thus suddenly pro- 
duced to testify against her, mingled with an almost idiotic smile or 
rather grin of half-drunken shame. — “I will not inquire,” contin- 
ued I, addressing this unhappy creature, “ if this bottle of brandy is 
yours, for you have asserted that there was none nearer than the 
tavern. Is it yours, sir 1” addressing the young man who sat before 
me. — “ No, sir,” said he, “ I never saw it till you took it from the 
floor.” — I repeated the inquiry to the two gentlemen on my left, 
and received a similar reply. — “Is it yours, sirl” said I to the 
Dutchman. — “ No, mynheer, I never trink em more nor tirty-foor 
year.” — I inquired of the young lady in black, who replied by a 
faint smile and a slight movement of the head. — No one remained 
but the Irish woman ; — “Is it yours 1” said I. — “ Indaad, and it 
is not, your honor,” said she ; “ it ’s not myself that wud be after 
taking the crathur along wid me that a way, ye may be sure ; and 
enough o’ the misery o’ thrinking that same ’s happunt to me and 
mine afore now, ye may depind.” — “Look here, mister,” cried 
the Tuscan, resuming the offensive, and turning upon me, “isn’t 
that bottle yours 1’* — After the laugh had subsided, which this 
sally produced, — “ No,” said I, “ it is not, and if it were, I should 
be one of the most inconsistent creatures in existence ; for, last night, 
I lectured upon temperance ; and propose to do the same thing to- 
night ; but let us see if the driver can give us any explanation of 
this mystery. Driver,” continued I, putting forth my head, and 
addressing an uncommonly fine-looking young man, who was driv- 
ing six in hand, “ we have found a bottle of brandy on the floor of 
your coach ; does it belong to you?” — “ Me, sir !” he exclaimed. 
“ I have nothing to do with such desperate stuff as that ; but I ’ll 
take charge of it, sir.” — I handed him the hottle ; and, in an instant 
after, a crash, as it struck against the stone wall at the road-side, 
announced its fate. — “ You ’ve broke my bottle !” exclaimed the 
Tuscan, as she half rose from her seat. — “ Dat ish droll enough,” 
said the Dutchman it ish like de judgment of Solomon’s; 
popody could foind vich was de true moder, till de leetil chilt was to 
be cut up.” — The coach now stopped at the inn ; and this unhappy 
young woman, after alighting, was scarcely able to reach the door 
without assistance. 

After we were seated at the breakfast table, some one inquired of 
*iie girl in attendance, if the young woman, who was of our com- 
pany, knew that breakfast was ready. “ Yes, sir,” was the reply; 

VbL. II. T 


74 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


“ but she says she is not very well, and has taken a cracker and » 
glass of brandy and water by herself.” — As we sat at breakfast, 
the case of this young offender was our only topic ; and, just before 
we rose from table, the girl who w’aited, and who had evidently 
taken a very natural interest in our conversation, remarked, that this 
young woman had requested the bar-keeper to let her have another 
bottle of brand} ; and, when he told her that the other passengers 
would be displeased, if a female rode in the coach with a bottle cf 
brandy, she had met his objection, by offering to ride outside with 
the driver, but that he had still persisted in his refusal. 

We all agreed, that the history of this unfortunate being, and of 
the origin of the abominable habit, which appeared to have obtained 
entire possession of her, must be extremely interesting , and the task 
of gathering such parts of it from her own mouth, as she might be 
induced, by kind and compassionate inquiry, to reveal, was assigned 
to me. — “ I fear, sir,” said the elderly gentleman, “ you will find 
her so very stupid from intoxication, when we resume our seats in 
the carriage, that you will not be able to acquire much knowledge 
of her history.” — “I reckon she ’s an old offender,” said the young 
man. “ You probably reckon then without your host, my young 
friend,” remarked the elderly gentleman ; “for she wears not the 
marks and numbers of one, who has been addicted to the habit for 
any great length of time.” — “ I once knew a case,” said the gen- 
tleman in black, “ of a young woman, who became intemperate from 
love.” — “ Veil, vary veil,” said the Dutchman, “ vat ish de case 
here but love of de prandy?” — “ Perhaps,” remarked the young 
lady who had occupied the corner in front of me, — “ perhaps she 
has a tyrant for her lord and master.” — “ And that same it is, to 
be sure ; you ’ve jist got a teeste o’ the truth o' the hull mather, ye 
may be sartain,” cried the Irish woman ; “ there ’s nathing moor ' 
detistable contagious anonder the blissit sun, than a cantankerous, 
vile felly o’ a husband, what ’s a thrinking and swearing, and moor 
fuller o’ divilment nor a bag o’ fleas, fro’ marning to night. It ’s 
jist what the leddy has spukken ; it ’s a tyrant o’ a lard and maaster 
what’s driven the poor sowl to her present perdition.” — “ May pe 
so,” said the Dutchman, “ but, of all de pig tyrants vat I ever read 
apout, de piggest tyrant and de hardest master vas von Mynheer 
Prandy-pottle.” — “Stage is ready,” cried the driver, and we 
ro.sumed the seats which we had occupied before. 

It has been affirmed, of persons partially inebriated, — rather, per- 
haps, in the language of folly than of philosophy, — that drinking 
more deeply will sober them again. I by no means assert, that any 
each cause had operated upon the present occasion ; certain it is, 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


76 


however, this unfortunate young woman, when we resumed our 
journey, had undergone a remarkable change in her personal 
appearance. She had lost entirely that expression of defiance, 
which she had exhibited before ; she was silent, and apparently sub- 
dued. It was very evident that she had been weeping. But what 
more faithless than a drunkard’s tears? 1 have seen them flow from 
the eyes of an intoxicated man, whose tongue, at the moment, 
stammered forth schemes of philanthropy, which failed not to evap- 
orate with the fumes of the liquor he had drunken. I have heard 
of a wretched individual, who, during a period of religious excite- 
ment, had impressed his fond, credulous wife, and was probably 
himself impressed, with a belief, that he had reason to rejoice in the 
hope set before him ; but, after a profluvium of tears and prayers, 
confessed to his inquiring partner in the morning, that he feared “ it 
was nothing but the rum.” — The apparent humiliation and penitence 
of this poor woman, seemed to excite the sympathy of every passen- 
ger, excepting those of her 'own sex. The Irish lady, in particular, 
turned her back towards her, as far as her relative position permit- 
ted, and appeared determined to give her, in the Scottish phrase, 
the “ cauld showther.” This conduct, in females, towards offend- 
ers of their own sex, is very common, and arises less from the 
absence of humanity than the presence of pride. The elderly gen- 
tleman, as far as I could judge from the contemplation of his fea- 
tures, appeared to regret that he had contributed to place her in her 
present predicament. The Dutchman’s features had again become 
buckled up into that expression of severity, which they bore at an 
earlier period ; and our other fellow-travellers were evidently sol- 
emnized. 

It was not the easiest task in the world, to decide upon the most 
appropriate mode of executing my commission. I finally, how- 
ever, decided upon that, which was simple and direct. — “Young 
woman,” said I, with a tone and expression of kindness, “your 
fellow-travellers profess to be friends of the temperance cause. 
We have been sincerely grieved on your account ; and, as it is now 
clear beyond a doubt, that you have made a free use of brandy, since 
you have been our companion, we are desirous, if you have no 
objection, to know something of the origin of this habit.” She 
raised her eyes with a look of distrust ; but the cordial compassion 1 
felt for her, and which was doubtless indicated by the expression 
upon my features at the moment, served, in some measure, to dissi- 
pate that feeling. “ It is a source of happiness to me,” I continued, 
“ to collect a variety of interesting facts upon the subject of iniera- 
peraace,' andj without any reference to particular persons, to present 


76 


THE STAGE-COAufl. 


these facts before the world, for the benefit of my fellow-creatures 
I believe the history of your case must be an interesting one, and if 
it should not pain your leelings too severely, I think you would be 
willing to set up your own example as a beacon for others. I can- 
not believe, from all I see, that you have been very long addicted to 
this habit.” — “ I never drank any spirit,” she replied, “ till about 
three years ago, just after my youngest child was born.” She 
uttered this reply in a suppressed tone of voice, and with evident 
emJDtion. — “ You have been married, then r” said I. — “ Yes, sir,” 
she replied, “ I was married eight years since.” — “ Is your hus- 
band living I inquired. — “I suppose he is ; — I have not seen 
him for more than two years.” — “ Does he not reside at home!” 
said I. — “ No, sir,” she answered, “ he left me about two years 
ago.” — “Does he follow the seasl” — “He has of late years,” 
said she. — “Two years,” I continued, “is a long time; — and 
when do you expect his return?” — “I don’t know that he ever 
will come back,” said she. — At this moment, the old Dutchman 
shook his head ; and, when I turned my eyes upon the young 
woman again, she had bowed down her face. Her bonnet concealed 
her features, but the tears were falling upon her cloak. 

After a brief interval, I resumed the conversation. “ I am fear- 
ful,” said I, “that you have a bad, perhaps, an intemperate, hus- 
band.” — My remark seemed to summon her to the rescue. What- 
ever may be the nature of domestic strife, foreign interference is 
rarely welcomed, by either party. — “ No, sir,” she replied, “ I had 
as good a husband as ever lived, and there never was a more 
temperate man. He was a member of the Temperance Society. 
My husband was a carpenter, and worked as hard as any man, 
but he never took strong drink of any kind; and, if I could only 
say the same thing of myself, we never should have parted.” — • 
“ How did you first contract this habit?” said I. — “After my last 
child was born,” she replied, “I had a severe fever, and was 
brought very low. It seemed as though I never should recover my 
strength. Our doctor, who was a skilful old gentleman, said noth- 
ing would raise me so soon as a little brandy. My husband asked 
him if nothing else would answer as well, and was much opposed 
to my taking it. But the doctor insisted upon it. It was not pleas- 
ant at first, but I soon began to relish it with sugar ; and, after a 
mct^lh’s trial, I got myself into such a state, that I thought I could n’t 
live without it. My husband was greatly distressed about it, and 
said he would not have it in the house. I then got it privately, and 
the habit was so strong upon me, that I used to lie awake very often, 
tliinking how good it would taste in the morning. I have often 
uidt and I say 80 now, that I Would givie the world, if it were mine, 


THli STAGE-COACH. 


7-7 


to be cured of this hankering after strong drink. At last, my poor 
children” — “ Poor leetil childher!” — cried the Dutchman, as he 
brushed a^'ay the tear from his eye — “ My poor children,” con- 
tinued the woman, “ began to suffer, and my husband became des- 
perate. At one time, he would try to coax me to leave it off ; and, 
after I had kept myself clear of it for a week or so, he would make 
me a present, though he could poorly afford it. At another time, 
when I could hold out no longer, and he returned and found nothing 
ready for dinner or supper, and the children crying, and his wife 
unfitted for everything, he would talk very harshly, and threaten to 
leave me. I deserved it all,” said she, weeping bitterly, “and I ’ve 
thought, if he should come back, I would try to do better, and leave 
it off, though I ’m afraid I should n’t be able to. I never thought he ’d 
really go away. He seemed, at last, to be giving the matter up. 
He let me go on, pretty much as I pleased. He used to take the 
two elder children, upon a Sunday, to meeting, and leave me at 
home, for I was ashamed to go there, as folks had begun to take no 
notice of me. A few days before he went off, he said very little to 
me, but seemed to be busy, packing his chest. I thought all this 
was done to scare me ; so I took no notice of it. He finally put his 
chest upon a wheelbarrow, and wheeled it away. ‘ Good-by, John,’ 
said I, for I thought he wasn’t in earnest; and I was sure he 
wasn’t, when I saw him coming back, in about an hour, without it. 
I told him he ’d made a short voyage of it. He said nothing — not 
a word — but took the children on his lap, and kissed them, and 
cried over them as if his heart would break. His silence, and his 
taking on so, worried me more than all his threats. Next morning, 
he asked me to take the three children, and go with him to see his 
mother, who lived about a mile off. So I got ready. We had an 
old dog that watched round the house. My husband patted the 
dog. ‘ Good-by, Caesar,’ said he, and he sobbed out loud as he 
said it. I then began to fear he was really going; and, as 1 
thought how kindly he had always used me, and what a mis- 
erable wife I had been to him, 1 couldn’t help shedding tears. 
But I said nothing, for I still thought he only wanted to try me. 
When we got to his mother’s, I saw his chest outside the gate. 
We went in, and the old lady began to shed tears, but said not a 
word. I then thought he meant to leave me. He looked at the clock, 
and said it was about time for the stage to come ; and, turning to 
me, he took my hand, but it was some time before he could speak. 
At last, he mssteied his feelings. ‘ Fanny !’ said he, ‘ there ’s but 
one way to convince you, that I ’m in earnest, and that is to leave 
you. I took yoi for better or worse, but I didn’t take you fo? 

VOL. II. 7* 


78 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


a drunkard, and I won’t live with you as such You have often 
said you was willing to part, and could support yourself, if 1 wsuld 
support the children, and you have agreed, that they shou.d live 
with their grandmother. I ’ve sold my tools and some other mat- 
ters, and raised a hundred dollars, which I have placed in her care 
for their use ; and, if God spares my life, they shall never want. 
When she writes me word, that you have kept clear of this habit 
for six months, I will gladly come back, but never till then.’ 
While he was speaking, the stage arrived, and I saw them lashing 
on his chest. — I then had- no longer any doubt. He kissed the 
children and his mother, and rushed out of the house. I followed 
him to the door. ‘ O, dear John,’ said I, ‘ don’t go, don’t go, 
John ; do try me once more ;’ but he never looked back ; and the 
stage was soon out of sight. — ‘ He is a cruel, cold-hearted man,’ 
said I, as I sat down on the threshold of the door. — ‘ Fanny,* said 
his mother, as she sat wiping her eyes, ‘ will you abide by those 
words at the judgment day?’ — ‘ No,’ said I, after a short pause, 
‘ he is the kindest and best of husbands and fathers.’ — ‘ Then, try,’ 
said she, ‘ to kill that sinful habit, and win back ycur happy fire- 
side.’ — ‘I will try,’ said I; and I have tried, but how poorly I 
have succeeded, you all know too well.” 

When the poor creature had finished her narrative, which bore 
irresistible marks of truth, in the very manner of its delivery, there 
was not an unmoistened eye among us all. The' elderly gentleman 
gave her the most admirable counsel. The old Dutchman turned 
round and gazed upon her, while the tears trickled down his 
weather-beaten features : “ Mine Got,” he exclaimed, taking off his 
hat with an air of the deepest reverence, while he spoke, “ ven vill 
dere pe an end of dish accursed trade ! Ven vill a pody leave off 
selling de fires of hell to hish neighbor in exchange for de poor 
leetil childher’s pread !” 

I learned from this woman, that, after her husband’s departure, 
she had obtained employment in a manufactory in the town of 

. Upon my return, I had occasion to stop there; and, 

having ascertained her name from the way-bill, I discovered that a 
female, bearing the same name, had been discharged, a short time 
before, for intemperance. In the course of some remarks, which I 
made upon this occasion, I alluded to the traffic as a heart-sickening 
employment. The young man who sat immediately before me, 
admitted that it was such, and stated that he had tended a country 
dram-shop for several years. He was a shrewd young man. but 
wholly uneducated. We requested him to give us some account 
of his experience in the rum-selling line, which he did substantially 
as foUows. 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


79 


PART SECOND. 

“ I was rising twelve, when I went to tend for my uncle, ’Zekiel 
Snooks. I kept with him nine years, till I was twenty-one, lacking 
a few days. Mother did n’t altogether like the business ; but father 
had got down to heel, and they thought ’t was a good chance for 
me to get along in the world. Uncle Snooks, when I first went, 
kept a pretty considerable smart sort of a concern, I tell ye. There 
was a’most everything there that country folks wants, from a plough- 
share clean down to a silk glove. But that did n’t last a great 
while. Arter a spell, he gin up the biggest part o’ sich goods as 
was not a great deal called for, and stuck to the main chance. No 
man knew which side his bread was buttered on better than uncl’e 
’Zekiel. He was up early and late, looking arter things ; he never 
lost a minute. I never knew him speak my whole name since I was 
born. He used to say he could n’t spare time for ’t. ‘ ’Kiah,’ he used 
to say, when he had a little leisure of a Sunday night, arter prayers, 
— ‘ ’Kiah, my lad, you must keep the run o’ matters. I’ve lost a 
mint o’ money, stocking my store with a pack o’ trash that rusts, 
or rots, or goes out o’ fashion afore it ’ll sell. When folks gets a 
leetle down, the farmers scratch up their ground as well as they 
Can, and the mechanics tinker along with their old tools ; and their 
wives patch up their old gowns and petticoats, and wear their old 
bonnets, and coax the holes in their stockings clean out o’ sight. 
The squire, maybe, turns his old coat two or three times, afore he ’ll 
come to my shop to buy cloth for a new one ; and the doctor runs 
down sugar, and tea, and coffee, jest because he can’t afford ’em. 
But there ’s one thing, ’Kiah, that never goes out o’ fashion, and 
that ’s the good stuff ; and there ’s nothing that brings in a profit 
like that. New England is the great stand-by, my boy, and I mean 
to look to that, as the main chance.’ — Uncle ’Ztkiel was a pretty 
good sort of a man for them days. There was no temperance 
societies then, as I know’d on. That was about fifteen years ago. 
I am now about twenty-seven. 

“ Uncle Snooks, jest about a year arter I went to tend his shop, 
did give up selling a great sight o’ things, that he used to have, and 
got to sell a great deal more liquor. He sold a monstrous sight on 
it, for a’most everybody took more or less, in them times. He 
made a great profit, as I thought ; but, somehow or other, he grew 
rather poorer every year. Our rum cost about twenty cents a gallon, 
afore it was rectified.” 

“Vat ish dat — vat you mean rectified V* inquired the old 
Dutchman. 


80 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


“ Why, uncle ’Zeik used to rectify alL the rum he bought, hy 
adding about a quarter part of fresh spring water, and then we 
retailed it at six cents a glass, — a pretty slick profit, any how. 
There was nowhere else to go in our town ; so it all went off well 
enough, — nobody grumbled. Uncle got cotched once, though, 
confoundedly. ’I3ijah Cody cotched him. We got a fresh hogs- 
head one Saturday ; and, arter we ’d shot up shop, uncle Snooks 
and I staid to rectify it. I never could tell jest how it happened, 
hut ’Bijah had got asleep on a bag of meal that was on the floor 
behind the settle, and we did n’t see him when we locked ourselves 
in. The noise we made a shetting up waked him, I guess, and he 
seed the whole proceedings. We drawed off about sixteen gallons 
into an empty berril, and then began to rectify what remained in the 
hogshead. We hadn’t poured in more than four or five gallons of 
the spring water, afore ’Bijah set up a haw, haw ; — ‘Holloa!’ 
says he, ‘ let ’s have a thimble-full afore you make it any stronger.’ 
— Uncle ’Zeik, ye see, was a member of the church, and he felt 
proper bad, I know. The drops o’ sweat stood on his forehead like 
rain-drops on a cabbage-leaf, arter a shower. — ‘ You won’t make 
no noise about it, ’Bijah, will yeV said he. — ‘Haw, haw, haw, 
haw, haw,’ said ’Bijah. — That was all uncle ’Zeik could get out 
of him, till he told him he should have as much as he wanted, 
whenever he called. He lived four years arter that ; and every day, 
foul or fair, he worked upon our dimijohns and berrils like a suction 
hose. Uncle had to pay the tribute. ’Bijah was confounded impu- 
dent, to boot. He ’d bring in three or four at a time ; and, arter 
treating ’em all to as much liquor as they ’d drink, he ’d turn round 
to uncle Snooks and tell him to charge it to his petiklar account, 
rolling his eyes, and running his red rag into the side of his cheek 
in such an oddfangled way as made uncle ’Zeik hang his head and 
look as mean and small as a weasel. I used to think, that I would n’t 
feel as he did then, for the vally of all the rum in the universe. But 
this was only a small touch of the troubles that uncle ’Zeik suffered 
in the rum business. — Many a one, that burnt himself up with rum 
afore he died, got his first glass in that shop ; and there many a 
poor fellow drank his last. We used to have raal high times there 
now and then. Two thirds of all the quarrels and fights, and a’mosl 
all the lawsuits, in our town, I guess, begun in uncle ’Zeik's shop. 

“There was no talk about temperance societies, in our town, at 
that time, as I tell'd ye. So long as a body could pay for his liquor, 
nobody else meddled with him or his concerns. Now and then, 
when the neighbors thought any one drinkt more than was good for 
uim, and lickt his wife too much, they used to talk of having on him 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


81 


ptfSted. But uncle ’Zeik was one of the slickmen, and took his part 
at the board so long as he had any property, and always got him 
clear. Sometimes, a poor fellow would be hauled up afore the 
church, for being drunk every day in the week. But uncle ’Zeik, 
who, as I toll’d ye, was a church-member, and kept the run of 
everybody’s drinking in the parish, used to make it out that he 
wasn’t drunk half so often as every day in the week, by a great 
sight ; and then he ’d look round among the church-members pres- 
ent, as sharp as an old hen-hawk, and say, ‘ Let him who is entirely 
without sin in this respect, cast the first stone at him.’ Then there 
used to be sich a spell of sneezing, and coughing, and snickering ; 
and so the matter dropped. Church-members then, and ministers 
too, in them days, used to make nothing of taking a comforting 
glass. Our minister. Parson Cogle, seldom stopped in at uncle 
’Zeik’s shop without tasting a little Cogniac, and nobody thought 
the worse on him for that. — ‘How,’ said he, one day, to uncle 
’Zeik, ‘ how do you construe the law which forbids you to permit 
persons to drink to excess in your store, Mr. Snooks?’ — ‘ I ’m raal 
glad to hear you propound that are point,' said uncle ’Zeik ; ‘ there ’s 
nothing, to my notion, half so difficult in all Hebrews. There isn’t 
more differ among cattle in their power to take off their load, than 
there is in the power of men to take off their liquor. There ’s Far- 
mer Ridgerow, — half a mug of toddy knocks him right up, so that 
he would n’t know a harrow from a hog's-troth. Then agin, there ’s 
Squire Pauncher, — he’s told me, many a day, when I’ve ax’d 
him, jist in a dilicate way, as I ’ve been a handing him the fourth or 
fifth mug, if he wasn’t afeard ’t would set a leetle heavy on his 
vitals, — he ’s told me ’pon his honor, that he did n’t feel that he 
got the good of the liquor at all, till he felt it somehow reach the 
right spot. The squire ’s a man of sense, and you may rely on ’t, 
parson, it ’s one of the most difficult things in natur, to say when a 
body ’s drinking to excess. The Ginral Court had ought to make 
this matter more plainer. One thing’s sartain, — when a body ’s 
drinkt out his money, here ’s a clear case of excess ; and, arter a 
good deal of thought, I ’ve made up my mind that this was the gini- 
vine meaning of the legislator.’ 

My mother used to say very often, long afore temperance socie- 
ties came into vogue, that selling liquor was an ugly business : and 
she tried hard to get father's consent to my leaving uncle ’Zeik ; 
but lie wouldn’t agree to ’t. She had the right on ’t. ’Twas 
prettv tough, for a young man, who got nothing but an insight into 
the tricks of a trade that he didn’t relish, to look on and see how it 
worked. A monstrous number of likely young men, and a good 


82 


THE STAGE-COAOH. 


many young women too, was used up in uncle ’Zeik’s shop, while 1 
was ’printice. The first liquor they took, as like as not, was all in 
an accidental sort of a way. Uncle couldn't make change into a 
few cents, and so he ’d say, ‘ Well, it isn’t exactly the price of a 
glass, but I won’t stand with a good customer ;’ and while he was 
a saying so, he ’d fill a glass and reach it out, and afore a body could 
think whether he wanted it or not, down it went, and so the ice was 
broken. ’T was raal melancholy to see the beginning and end of 
some on ’em, from the time they laid down the dollar for six cents 
worth of rum and the rest in tea and sugar, to the time when they 
laid down a pistareen for three cents worth of tea and the rest in 
rum. I ’ve sometimes felt a kind of guilty myself, when I ’ve passed 
a castaway, working among the town’s poor, on the public road, 
with his bloated face and ragged clothes ; and remembered that I 
handed him his first glass in uncle ’Zeik’s shop, when he was an v 
industrious and happy young man. 

“ Uncle Snooks had a pretty hard time on it sometimes, when the 
women folks used to come and plague him, about not selling any 
more to their husbands. There was one Barny Belcher, who drinkt 
up his farm. They used to say his old cow choked him, because 
he sold her last of all his stock, and died in a fit, while he was 
drinking the very first dram, that he bought with the money he got 
for her. Barny’s wife tormented uncle ’Zeik from morning to 
night ; and her persecution, together with the loss of his property, 
as I always thought, drove him out of his business and shortened 
his days. She was a proper firebrand, though she never took any 
spirit herself. There was n’t a happier couple, in our parish, when 
they were first married ; and they had a family of four little children, 
that everybody used to notice, for their neat appearance. I 've seen 
’em many a time, of a Sunday, going to meeting, hand in hand, and 
all four abreast, along with their father and mother. Barny was a 
very thrifty farmer, and I never thought he was the man to die a 
drunkard. It used to be said, that there had n't been a likelier couple 
married in the parish, for many years ; for, though they had almost 
nothing to start with, yet they were, both on ’em, amazing hand- 
some to look at ; they were as smart as a couple of steel traps, and 
very industrious into the bargain. They did surprising well for 
several years. But he got to be an insign, and rum and rigimentals 
did the business for poor Barny, in less than no time. — When he 
got to be pretty bad, she first came to the house, and then to the 
shop, to get uncle ’Zeik not to let him have any more liquor. The) 
had a good many talks about it, but uncle ’Zeik would have his 
way. At last she consulted a lawyer, and came over to the shop, 


THE STAGE-OOaCH. 


83 


and gave uncle ’Zeik a raal dressing, afore more than a dozen cus- 
tomers. — ‘ Well, Nelly Belcher,’ said uncle ’Zeik when she camo 
in, resolved to be beforehand with her, ‘ what do you want to-day?’ 

— ‘Mercy,’ said she, ‘if I can’t have justice. You know well 
enough what I want. I now request you once again, to sell my 
husband no more spirit.’ — ‘ And how can I help it?’ said uncle 
’Zeik, somewhat disturbed by her resolute manner. — ‘ I have taken 
a lawyer’s advice,’ said she, ‘ and you have no right to sell to com- 
mon drunkards.’ — ‘Do you say that your husband is a common 
drunkard ?’ said he. — ‘ To be sure I do,’ she replied. — ‘ I really do 
not think your husband is a common drunkard, Nelly Belcher,’ said 
uncle ’Zeik. — ‘ Snooks,’ said she, clinching her fist, ‘you are — 
W’hat you are. You know that Barny ’s a common drunkard, and 
you made him so, you old — licensed, rum-selling church-member. 

— ‘ Go out of my shop,’ cried uncle ’Zeik, stepping towards her. — 
‘I wouldn’t touch the poor woman, Mr. Snooks,’ said one of the 
company ; ‘ she ’s driven on by the state of her husband and chil- 
dren.’ — ‘ Touch the poor woman !’ cried Nelly, stretching herself 
up, — and she was the tallest woman in the parish, — ‘ let him lay 
the weight of his rummy finger upon me if he dares ; and, though 
I ’m poor enough in purse. Heaven knows, I ’ll show him that I ’va 
the spirit of my father, who thrashed him, when he was eighteen, 
for stealing a sheep-skin. I won’t go out of his shop, nor budge an 
inch, till I’ve said my say, in the presence of ye all.’ — ‘Nelly 
Belcher,’ said uncle ’Zeik, ‘you’ll have to pay for this.’ — ‘Pay 
for it!’ cried Nelly, with a screaming voice, ‘and haven’t you 
got your pay already? Haven’t you got the homestead, and 
the stock, and the furniture? And didn’t Barny pawn the chil- 
dren’s clothes last Friday, and bring you every cent that he got for 
’em? You’ve got everything, from the ridge-pole down ; you’ve 
got it all here, among your wages of iniquity ;’ and, as she said 
this, she gave a blow, with her fist, upon the top of uncle ’Zeik’s 
till, that made the coppers pretty lively, I tell ye. — ‘ Snooks,’ said 
she, ‘ yOu ’ve got everything. I have n’t a pint of meal nor a peck 
of potatoes for my children. Stop. — I’m mistaken ; there’s an 
old rum-jug in the house, that ’s been in your shop often enough ; 
you ought to have that ; and there ’s a ragged straw-bed ; you shall 
have ’em both, and anything else you ’ll find, if you won’t let Barny 
have anymore rum. — You’ve made your bargain, Snooks, your 
own way; but there’s a third party to it, and that’s the devil. 
You ’ve got poor Barny’s money in your till, and the devil ’s got 
your soul in his fire-proof, and he ’ll keep it there safe enough, till 
the day of judgment.’ 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


84 - 

“ Uncle ’Zeik offered ’Bijah Cody a handsome present, if he ’d 
turn her out of the shop. — ‘ I ’d a leetle rather not, Mr. Snooks,’ 
ansv/ered ’Bijah, with a look, that showed, plainly enough, how 
much he enjoyed uncle ’Zeik’s torment. — ‘ Look here, Nelly Bel- 
cher,’ said uncle ’Zeik, — and he was getting wrathy, for he stamped 
his foot pretty considerable smart, — ‘ the second Tuesday of 
November the court will sit, and you shall answer for this.’ — 
‘ What car(j I for your court!’ replied she ; ‘ the day will come, and 
it may come this hour, when a higher court will sit ; and you shall 
answer for more than all this a thousand fold. Then, you cold- 
hearted old man, I will lead my poor ragged children before the bar 
of a righteous God, and make a short story of their wrongs, and of 
that poor young man’s, who has fallen by your hands, just as surely, 
as though you had killed him with ratsbane. There ’s not one of 
you here,’ continued Nelly, ‘ that doesn’t remember me and Barny 
when we were married. You was at our wedding ’Bijah Cody, 
and so was you. Lot Mason. Now I ask you if you ever dreamt 
that we should come to this ! W as there ever a little farm better 
managed! And, if I was not a careful, faithful, industrious wife 
to Barny, I wish you to say the very worst of me to my face.’ — 
‘ Nobody doubts it, Nelly,’ said ’Bijah. — ‘ And were my little ones 
ill treated ! Had n’t they whole clothes for Sunday, and was n’t 
they constant at meeting, for years, till this curse crept in upon 
us, like an adder! And, till then, did ye ever see a likelier man 
than Barny! And, as for his kindness to me and the children till 
that hour, it ’s for me to witness ; and I say it before ye all, that, 
before he tasted this old man’s liquor, there never was a hard 
thought or a bitter word between us. He was the boy of my fool- 
ish love, when he was seventeen, and the man of my choice, when 
he was three and twenty. I gave him an honest heart, that never 
loved another, and the trifle of worldly goods, that my old mother 
left me ; but he has broken the one and squandered the ether. Last 
night, as I lay upon my straw-bed, with my poor children, 1 thought 
of our young days, and our little projects of happiness ; and, as I 
saw poor Barny, in my fancy, just the trim lad that he was, with 
his bright eye and ruddy cheek, I felt my eyes filling with tears, as 
they ’re filling now. I hope I may never shed another,’ said she, 
dashing them off with the back of her hand, and resuming her look 
of vengeance. — ‘I’m going to cross your threshold, for the last 
time, and now mark me well. I ask you, once for all, to sell poor 
Barnv no more liquor. If you do,-I will curse you till I die, as the 
destroyer of my husband; and I will teach my children to curse you 
when I am dead, as the destroyer of their father.’ 


THE 5iT AGE-COACH. 


85 


“ ‘ She ought to be shut up as a common brawler,’ said uncle 
*Zeik, as she left the shop. — But the solemn impression, which 
poor Nelly had made upon us a]', prevented us from saying anything 
to comfort him. — ‘ You said you didn’t think Barny Belcher was 
a common drunkard,’ said Lot Mason. — ‘ No more I don’t,’ replied 
uncle ’Zeik, ‘ I consider him a very uncommon drunkard.’ — ‘ That ’s 
rather too cold a joke for my stomach just now,’ said ’Bijah Cody , 
and he walked out of the shop. He, and Lot Mason, and Barny, 
usad to be great cronies, formerly ; and Nelly’s talk had reminded 
him of it. ’Bijah’s eyes were pretty red, when he went out, and 
he hadn’t been drinking neither. He never came into the shop 
after that day. Two or three others, that were there, told uncle 
’Zeik, that they thought he was wrong to sell Barny any more ; 
and the old man came home quite sober, and down in the mouth. 
He had a horrid nightmare that night, and Miss Snooks said she 
had to shake him a’most a quarter of an hour, afore she could stop 
his bawling and yelling. He would n’t tell his dream to nobody for 
some time ; but, at last, he got superstitious, and kind of confessed 
it to Parson Cogle, who told it about the parish, in confidence. It 
seems uncle ’Zeik dreamt he was cliased all night by a monstrous 
hogshead of rum, that he’d rectified, and he thought, as it came 
rolling down hill after him, that it would crush him to atoms every 
minute. 

“ Uncle Snooks soon forgot his dream, and began to sell rum to 
Barny Belcher as before, whenever he got any money. It was 
thought, by a good many, that Nelly had lost her reason, or very 
near it, about that time. She soon found out, that Barny got rum 
at our shop ; and sure enough, she brought her four little children, 
and. standing close to the shop door, she cursed uncle ’Zeik, and 
made them do so too. It worried him properly. Whenever she 
met him in the road, she used to stop short, and say over a form 
that she had, in a low voice, but everybody knew, by her raising 
her eyes and hands, that she was a cursing uncle ’Zeik. Very few 
blamed her ; her case was a very hard one ; and most folks excused 
her on the score of her mind’s being disordered by her troubles. 
But even then, she made her children obey her, whether she was 
present or absent, though it was said she never struck ’em a blow. 
It almost made me shudder sometimes, when I ’ve seen these chil- 
dren meet uncle ’Zeik. They ’d get out of his way as far as they 
could ; and, when he ’d gone by, they ’d move their lips, though you 
could n’t hear a word, and raise up their eyes and hands, just as 
their mother had taught ’em. When I thought these children were 
calling down the vengeance of Heaven upon uncle ’Zeik, for having 

▼OL. II. 8 . 


86 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


made them fatherless, it fairly made my blood run cold. — After 
the death of her husband, she became very melancholy, and a great 
deal more so, after the loss of her two younger children. She 
didn’t use to curse uncle ’Zeik after that. But she always had a 
talent for rhyming, and she used to come and sit upon the horse- 
block before our shop, and sing a sort of a song, that was meant to 
worry uncle ’Zeik, and it did worry him dreadfully, ’specially the 
chorus. Whenever he heard that, he seemed to forget w'hat he 
was about, and everything went wrong. ’Twas something like 
tills : — 

‘ He dug a pit, as deep as hell, 

And into it many a drunkard fell ; 

He dug the pit, for sordid pelf, 

And into that pit he ’ll fall himself.’ 

One time, when poor Nelly sung the chorus pretty loud, and the 
shop was rather full,' uncle ’Zeik was so confused, that he poured 
half a pint of rum, that he had measured out, into his till, and 
dropped the change into the tin pot, and handed it to the customer. 

“ I raally felt for him, for, about this time, two of his sons gave 
him a sight of trouble. They used to get drunk, and fight like 
sarpents. They shut the old gentleman down cellar one night, and 
one on ’em, when he was drunk, slapped his father in the face. 
They did nothing but run him into debt; and, at last, he got to 
taking too much himself, jest to drown care. Dr. Tilton said, that 
old Nelly was right, and that uncle Snooks w’ould fall into his own 
pit, afore he died. — Mother, at last, got father's consent, that I 
should leave, and I ’ve been in an English goods store ever since 
Dr. Tilton often said I had a wonderful escape. If I ’d had as much 
relish for liquor as most folks, I s'pose I should have got into the 
pit as well as uncle ’Zeik.” — “ Ish de old man alive now?” 
inquired the Dutchman. — “ Yes, he ’s living,” said the narrator. 
“ After the temperance society was formed, he lost his license, 
and got to be starving poor, and the town had to maintain him. 
He ’s been crazy for several years. I went to see him last winter 
with father, who ’s tried to get him into the state hospital. It made 
me feel ugly to see him. He didn’t know me; but all the time I 
was there, he kept turning his thumb and finger as though he was 
drawing liquor, or scoring it down with a bit of chalk upon the wall. 
It seemed as if he ‘d forgot all his customers but one ; for, though 
the wall w'as covered with charges of rum, and brandy, and gin, and 
flip, and toddy the whole was set down agin Barny Belcher.” — 
“ Veil,” said the Dutchman, “jest dat vay my neighbor, old Pedei 
Pendergrash, kick de bucket. He trade in dat slitufF more noi 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


87 


twenty year. He vas vary poor at de last ; he vas vary drunk ; and, 
afore he die, he vas raven all de time about viskey.” 

“ It is greatly to be deplored,” said the gentleman in black, who 
sat next me, “ that the church should occasionally be made to suffer, 
through the misconduct of its members.” — “It is so,” said the 
elderly gentleman, “ yet we frequently encounter a mawkish sensi- 
bility upon this subject, which is exceedingly ridiculous. If free 
ships make free goods, it by no means follows, that church-mem- 
bership, or the pastoral office, forbids the right of search. Yet there 
are certain persons, who very absurdly strive to conceal the follies 
and vices, which occasionally mark unworthy members, amid the 
great mass of excellence, which undeniably characterizes the body. 
Professing Christians, and particularly ministers of the gospel, 
should utterly reject the idea of casting the whole amount of 
Christian graces into common, stock, and dividing per capita. We 
are, now and then, compelled to make the painful discovery, not 
only of error, but of gross and abominable sin, among professing 
Christians ; but their respectability, as a body, defies the malicious 
ingenuity of man. There is not a legitimate branch of that tree, 
which Christ planted, to which this remark is inapplicable. Upon 
the body, there are, undoubtedly, excrescences, unsightly and cor- 
rupt, and their existence has just the same effect in lessening the 
integrity of the whole, as have the mountains of the earth, in lessen- 
ing its sphericality. It would be nothing less than folly and mad- 
ness, in one, who labored under a cancer, to suffer it to remain 
unextirpated, lest he should disclose the imperfection of a certain 
portion of his tabernacle. None, but a pompous and vain-glorious 
prelate, will expand his cassock, and display the apparatus of his 
order, and come down in all the parade of canonicals to the rescue, 
when nothing more is proposed than an inquiry into individual 
character, or the affixation of the brand of public scorn upon a 
convicted hypocrite. No, sir, purgation is a salutary process, and 
I am never weary of seeing rum-selling deacons, church-wardens, 
church-members, and guzzling clergymen exposed to the public 
gaze.” — “ If dere ish not good sense in vat dish old gentleman zay, 

I don know vere he ish,” said the Dutchman. “I ’ve got a goot 
minishter now ; he trinks de colt vater ; he needs netting shtronger. 
Yen he come to trinking toddy, den I vill pe my own minishter.” ^ 
“I agree with you entirely, sir,” said the gentleman in black. 
“There is an undiscriminating portion of the community, which is 
liible to be misled, and there is a wicked portion, quite willing to 
mislead them. It is thus, that the church is made to suffer by such 
exhibitions. I do not say, that she loses, in one way, more than she 


88 


THli STAGE-COACH. 


gains, in another. The serious contemplation of these delinquen 
cies, in those, whose holy office seems to furnish a rampart of more 
than ordinary strength, is likely to increase our power of resistance, 
b) teaching us a solemnizing lesson of human frailty, and thus lead- 
ing us to the throne of grace in prayer for an unearthly support. The 
subject of intemperance is certainly one of the highest interest ; and 
I am far from thinking, that our day, thus far, has been employed 
unprofitably.” — “ Jest so it seem to me,” said the Dutchman ; “ de 
shtory of a poor trunkard ish Uke a beacon on de preakers, if a pody 
vill only l:eep a goot look-out. I followed de zea, and trinkt prandy 
more nor tirty year. Tirty-foor year ago, I vowed I would leave 
em off, if Glod should shpare my life. I vas on a wreck, ven I made 
vow.” — “ You have lived long, and probably seen much of the 
woriQ,” said the elderly gentleman, who, like myself, had conceived- 
a respect for the Dutchman’s good sense and good feelings, — “ sup- 
poic you give us a leaf out of your log-book, sir.” — “ Vary veil, 
mynheer,” said the Dutchman. 


PART THIRD. 

“ I ’ve heer’d mine oold fader zay dat it vas thought, dere vas n’t 
an honest man in hish day, in all Holland, vat trinkt coold vater. — 
Vansittart, de great burgomaster, clapt apout a dozen in irons vat 
he found trinking coold vater, togedder ; bekase he knowed dey vas 
a plotting mischief agin de States General. — My fader zay de 
council of de Lutheran chuch in Leyden, vere he vas porn, hauled 
dere oold minishter, Van Oort, over de coals for giving a beggar 
coold vater mitout any prandy, bekase, de council zay, he vas not 
given to hospitality. — Oold Van Krutzen, de sexton of our chuch, 
used to hire me, ven I vas leetil poy, to help him shcour de com- 
munion plate, and he always give me a trink of de wine vat vas 
left. Dat vas de vay I begins. Poor Van Krutzen, he got to pe a 
trunkard. Von toctor zay he must leave off prandy. So he try dat 
vay. After a leetil vile he thought he vas a dying ; so he send for 
his oold toctor, and he zay, de toder toctor vas a pig quack, and told 
de patient to trink prandy agin. Van Krutzen lookt up and shmile, 
and ax ie toctor how much he should take dat day. ‘ Von ounce,’ 
zay de toctor. So, ven he vas gone. Van Krutzen zay tc his son, 
‘ Herman, get de measure pook, my poy, and read how much make 
von ounce.’ So Herman gets de pook, and read, ‘sixteen drams 
makes von ounce.’ — ‘ Dat ish de toctor for me,’ cried Van Knit- 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


89 


Ren, as he Tubbed his hands ; ‘ I never took so many drams pelore 
in von day.’ 

“ Ven I vas going my firsh voyage, as c£pin-poy, my fader pu 
me in de shtage to go to de seaport apout foorty mile. De shtage 
vas upset ; von man preak his head, anoder his leg, and De Groot, 
de triver, vas kilt upon de shpot. De Groot vas trunk ; — dat vas 
prandy. — Ven I got to de seaport, I shtroll apout de town half de 
night, get into pad company, lose de leetil monish vat my oold 
moder give me, and vas lock up in de vatch’ouse ; — dat vas prandy. 
— De ship vas vaiting for fair vind eight day. At lasht he come, 
vest-nord-vest. Den de captain vas not to pe found till de r-ext day. 
Ven dey find him, he vas so full of de shtuff he couldn’t navigate 
de ship ; — dat vas prandy. — De vary firsh night after ve gets to 
zea, ve runs dowm a leetil shcooner ; shtruck her jest apout mid- 
ships. After she fell off, she took a lee lurch to port, and vent 
down head foremost. Ven I hear de shock, I runs upon de deck, 
and jest zee her go. De crew cry tor us to shtop. Ve hove de 
topsails apack, and gets out de poat, bi^t ve vas running eight knot ; 
and, afore de poat could pull pack to de place vere she vent down 
dey vas all drown but von, who held on to a shpar ; ve save him. 
Tirteen lives vas lost, he zay. It vas pright moonlight night, but 
our vatch vas trunk ; — dat, you zee, vas prandy. — De captain 
vas trunk all de time ; so he don know vat he zay. He cursh and 
shwear ten knot an hour. He shcream to one man to pull de fore- 
top powline, ven he mean, like enough, de main-sheet. So de poor 
fellow he pull de fore-top powline, jest vat de captain zay. Den de-* 
captain he tie him up to de rigging, and give him two dozen mit de 
oold cat, bekase he don pull de foresheet ; — dat vas prandy. — Von 
dark night, ven ve had a lee shore, de man at de helm, — he vas 
goot zeaman, — he zay, ‘Captain* Van Brandt, don you tink ve 
petter keep her a leetle nearer de vind, and hold off de land till de 
day preak?’ — Den Van Brandt he cursh and shwear; — he vas 
pretty trunk dat night. — ‘ Vat, in de name of Tutch tonder,’ he 
zay, as he shove de man from de helm, ‘ vat ! you tell me how de 
ooli ship shall pe shteer! You’re a lant-lupper,’ he zay; ‘ de 
cook can shteer more petter dan sich a greenhorn .as you.’ So he 
called up de nigger cook, and tell him how to shteer ; and, to show de 
Oder man vat a fool he vas, he sail de ship a point vreer on de vind. 
Oato vas vary proud to shteer de ship ; and ven de captain turn in, 
he tink he shteer petter, if de compass vould not shake apout mit de 
roll of de ship ; so he open de pinnacle, and put a chip under de 
compass to keep him sbteady, jest as he do mit his shpider in de 
cabouse. Apout an hour after Captain Van Brandt turn in, d« 

VOL. II. 8* 


ao 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


cook shteer de ship right on de preakers. I vas knock out of my 
berth. De zea made a clean breach fore and aft. It vas de young 
flood ; dat vas goot luck. Ven de day come, ve lighten de ship, 
and get out an anchor ashtern, and, mit de full zea, ve get de oold 
hulk afloat. De vater-casks vas stave, and Cato vas gone. He 
zay he know Captain Van Brandt vould kill him; so, ven de ship 
shtruck, he jump overpoard ; — all dish vas prandy. — Dish vas de 
lasht trip dat ever Van Brandt vent to zea. He die apout two mons 
after he get ashore of de liver complaint. De toctor zay dat it vas 
prandy. He vas buried de same day mit de burgomaster’s lady, 
vat die of de same dishtemper. 

“ I have seen great deal of trouble in dish voorld, and prandy vas 
at de pottom. — De lasht voyage I go to zea, I vas de shkipper 
myself. I trinkt prandy den like oder volks. De mate, Jahn 
Grontergotzler, did jest so. After a shquall or a shpell of tough 
wedder, ven all de trouble and danger vas over, ve used to take de 
shnaps of prandy pretty freely. Von or de toder, me or Jahn 
Grontergotzler, vas commonly a leetil trunk in pleasant wedder. 
But ve took turns, so dat von should be sober to take care of de 
prig. Von time, ve had a terrible shtorm, in de Pay of Piscay it 
vas. It hold on four days ; den dere come clear wedder. Ve 
thought it vas all over, and, vile de men vas repairing de damage vat 
de shtorm did, Grontergotzler and me took more prandy dan vas goot 
for us. Den it began to blow agin, and de shtorm came back ten 
times vorse dan pefore. Grontergotzler vas an oold man. Ven he 
vas sober, dere vas no petter to hand, reef, or shteer, dan oold Jahn ; 
but ven he vas trunk, he vas goot for notting. De crew vas all 
young men ; some of dem vas only poys, and dey had all been trink- 
ing a leetil. I shtaggered up to de helm, ven I saw de shquall 
coming, to help de man dere to get de prig before de vind ; but I 
vas too late. De shquall took her on de proadside, and trew her on 
her peamends, jest as a shtrong man vould trow a leetil poy. Five 
men vat vas aloft, mending de sails and rigging, vas thrown into de 
zea, and not von got pack to de prig. Den came anoder zea, and 
trew her more over dan pefore. Ven I could zee, I look round for 
de living. Trunk as he vas, Jahn Grontergotzler — he vas vary 
shtrong man — vas holding on to de main chains; and close to Jahn 
vas Peder Oortzen, de capin-poy. De shtorm now seem to be con- 
tent mit de mischief he had done, and dere vas no more shqualls. 
Every great wave passed over us. I vas in de fore-chains, and had 
lasht myself mit a rope ; but de prandy made me shtupid, and 1 
made up my mind dat I musht go. I saw dat oold Jahn musht go 
firsht, for he vas so trunk, dat he sometimes held by von hand. I 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


91 


vas not so trunk myself, as not to feel for poor Oortzen, de capin- 
poy ; I promished his moder to take care of him. I called to him , 
and told him to keep out of de oold mate’s reach, for he vould gc 
down soon, and if he got him in his grip, dere vould be no chance 
for him. — ‘ O, Captain Plombaak,’ cried de leetil poy, ‘ I can’t hold 
much longer.’ Jest den, Grontergotzler let go, and, in his shtruggle, 
clutched Peder’s right leg mit his hand. I cried to de poor lad to 
shake de oold man off ; but he could not get rid of Jahn’s death- 
grapple ; no more could he support de weight of de oold man, and 
his own peside ; so he soon let go von hand, and den de toder, and, 
giving a shriek, he sunk mit oold Grontergotzler to de pottom. — I 
vas den all alone, and I vas glad I vas not too trunk to pray ; my 
moder larn me to pray, ven I vas no more tall dan dish,” — measur- 
ing half the length of his hickory stick. — “I pray to mine Got to 
shpare me, and I vow to trink no more prandy, and to try to pe a 
goot man. — Jest as de day vas done, I vas taken vrom de wreck, 
by an English nian-of-war. I have kept my vow ; I have trinkt no 
more prandy, nor any oder shtrong trink, for tirty-foor year, and I 
have tried to pe a goot man, so far as I know how, — but de merci- 
ful Got, who has shpared me, musht pe de judge o'f dat.” — As he 
uttered these last words, the tears streamed down the furrows of 
the old Dutchman’s face, and we were all deeply affected by his 
simple narrative. 

For a short time, we rode forward in silence. — “It is a painful 
truth, sir,” said the lady, who sat before me, directing her eyes, as 
she spoke, towards the elderly gentleman ; “ it is a painful truth, as 
you have remarked, that examples of intemperance are to be found 
among women. They certainly are, and among females of every 
grade in society. 1 have seen poor women, thoroughly drunk upon 
rum; and very fine ladies, who have dropped in, here and there, 
among their acquaintances and at confectionary stores, of a morning, 
and who had become ridiculously tipsy, and even worse, before they 
reached their own homes. I do not desire to excuse or even to 
palliate the offences of females, in this respect. But I believe, sir, 
there are no female distillers, nor wholesale brewers, nor wine- 
makers. The manufacture of the means of intoxication is pretty 
much in the hands of your sex.” — “ Your observation, madam,” 
replied the elderly gentleman, “is perfectly just ; and, in domestic 
life, though the husband may be driven to intemperance by the 
wife’s extravagance, or defection, yet I believe a vastly greater 
numbe.* of wives are made drunkards, by the example of their hus- 
bands, than husbands by the example of their wives.” — “You 
spoke, sir,” continued the lady, “ of intemperance among the 


92 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


clergy. I scarcely know which is the more likely to excite our 
sorrow and surprise, an intemperate female of rank and education, 
or an intemperate clergyman.” — “ The clergyman, madam, beyond 
all doubt,” replied the elderly gentleman ; “he has been solemnly 
set apart, with his own free consent, for the service of his Lord and 
Master.” — “The village, in which I was born,” said the lady, 
“ and in which I have passed the chief part of my life, is somewhat 
remarkable, for a succession of intemperate clergymen. Three, 
within my own knowledge, were intemperate men. They are ibw 
dead, however, and there is a proverb, you know, sir, which, in the 
opinion of many, exempts them from all censure.” — “ There is a 
proverb,” replied the elderly gentleman, “ I am aware, which for- 
bids us to say anything but good of the dead ; but I doubt the wis- 
dom and the policy of such a proverb. I have more respect for the 
practice of the ancient Egyptians, which was precisely opposite. 
They suffered their living monarchs to reign uncensured ; but, upon 
their decease, tliey proceeded formally to try them upon their mer- 
its, and awarded praise or censure to their memories accordingly. 
Few men are utterly regardless of posthumous reputation, whethei 
its boundaries be the whole world or the corner of some little 
hamlet. It is said, that he, who dies, can take nothing with him : 
surely he should not be permitted to take with him into the grave 
of oblivion the reputation of his misdeeds. The highest and holiest 
motive is the love of God. But it is not inconsistent with the full 
and free operation of this heavenly spring, that others should act 
simultaneously with it, for the production of the same result. Thus 
the desire to leave our children that, which is infinitely better than 
riches, a dying father’s good name, is a legitimate motive. How 
soothing, in a dying hour, surrounded by our children and friends, 
to ask, in the cheering confidence of truth, and in the language 
of the prophet. Whose ox have I taken? or whose ass have 1 
taken? or whom have I defrauded? Whom have I oppressed? or 
of whose hand have I received any bribe to blind mine eyes there- 
with? If dust to dust is to close the account forever, as between 
man and man, a strong inducement to good conduct is taken 
away. Judgment is with the Lord ; but I perceive in the just 
expression of opinion, touching the merits of the dead, ric presump- 
tuous interference with the final decrees of an all-righteous God. 
We have given this day, thus far, to the subject of intemperance, 
and I shall be quite contented, if the remainder of it be bestowed in 
a similar manner ; and, unless you have a serious objection, I should 
be gratified to hear some account of your thfee clergymen, whose 
errors ought not to terminate in their own personal affliction and 


THE STAGE-CCUCH. 


93 


disgrace, but extend beneficially in the shape of a solemn warning to 
others.” — “I have nothing to offer, sir,” rejoined the lady, “in 
opposition to your reasoning ; and I will briefly relate all that I 
recollect of their intemperate habits.” 


PART FOURTH. 

“ The temperance reformation has produced so great a change 
in practice and opinion, since the days of my childhood, that I have 
sometimes half doubted the accuracy of my own recollect’ons. I 
occasionally ask myself, if it were really the case, that ministers of 
the gospel accustomed themselves, at any period, on week days, and 
upon the Sabbath, to the use of rum, and brandy, and gin, and their 
various compounds, such as sling, and toddy, and flip. But my 
memory suffers me not long to remain in uncertainty. A mass of 
melancholy facts soon gather to its aid, and leave not a doubt upon 
my mind. My earliest recollections of strong drink, are directly 
associated with the person of the clergyman, who was settled in our 
village, when I was born. He baptized me. That was twenty- 
nine years ago. Temperance was seldom spoken cf, when I was a 
little girl, except in a general way. There was no such thing as a 
temperance society. Mr. Motey was about sixty, at that time, 
and had preached for our people more than twenty years. He was 
very fond of me, when I was a little girl, and used, almost always, 
when he came to our house, to take me upon his knee. Some- 
times I was pleased to sit there, and at other times, I ran away ; and 
when my mother asked me why I did so, I remember to have told 
her, that I did not like to sit upon Parson Motey’s knee, when his 
breath smelt of rum. She told me, that I must treat clergymen 
with respect, and that ministers had a hard task to perform, and 
must have spirit to support them like other people. I soon acquirea 
such a knowledge of Parson Motey’s habits as enabled me to know, 
without approaching him, whether he had been drinking spirit or 
not. When he had not, his manners and tone of voice, were mild 
and paternal ; but, when he had, they did not seem like a minister’s ; 
his face was flushed ; his voice was loud ; and his manners were 
light He told very droll stories, and laughed very boisterously. 
Upon such occasions, I used to run away, and peep through the 
crack of the door; and, when he had gone, I remember to have said, 
‘Mother, what a funny minister Parson Motey is!’ — The idea, 
that our old minister had done wrong, in this respect, never entered 
m} mind. I can assign no cause, peculiar to myself, but, as I hava 


94 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


Btated, his breath was very disagreeable to me, as a child ; and his 
habit of taking spirit became such a daily custom, before I was six 
years old, that I never sat upon his knee after that age. Parson 
Motey was a great favorite with his people. He fell away sadly 
before he died, and I have now no doubt, that the habits of his 
parishioners, which were almost universal, some four and twenty 
years ago, operating upon his social nature, occasioned his down- 
fall. Wherever he came, nothing was too good for the minister ; 
and nothing was better than a cheering glass. Theie was nothing, 
in the nature of this good thing, which confined its employment to 
any particular hour of the day. Mrs. Motey herself was satisfied, 
to use her forcible expression, that it was the very life and soul 
of her husband. She was everlastingly stirring up something foi 
Mr. Motey ; and, if it were not precisely agreeable, it was no fault 
of hers, for full thirty-three and a third per centum of the racy 
mixture, whatever it might be, was commonly consumed by Mrs. 
Motey, during the process of preparation. I became intimate at the 
parsonage, as I grew older, and have frequently witnessed her per- 
formances. She invariably sipped a little of the raw material, 
whether rum, gin, brandy, or whiskey, — originally, no doubt, to 
ascertain its quality ; but, at last, from the mere force of habit. As 
she poured in water, she tasted it again, to judge of its strength; 
when she added sugar, she once more sipped a few drops, to be 
sure that it was sufficiently sweet, for no man had a sweeter tooth 
than Mr. Motey; next came the nutmeg, and again this faithful 
creature applied the lessening compound to her lips ; the poker, 
which seemed to be heated in a vestal furnace, — for it was kept 
constantly ready for action, — the poker was now immersed in the 
hissing and bubbling compound ; and then — for she would not burn 
Mr. Motey for the world — then she lingered over the blessed 
strengthener, blowing and sipping alternately for five long minutes. 
It ivas amusing to witness the reverential air, with which she tottled 
up to her lord and master, and presented all that remained of the 
fruit of her labors. She seemed almost to worship her good hus- 
band, and Jupiter had not a more obsequious cupbearer in Gany- 
mede. — In the morning, Mr. Motey must not go out without 
something to keep the wind off his stomach. He must take a little 
brandy before dinner, for an appetite, and a little after, for a 
<ligester. He must lace his coffee with a little brandy, to prevent 
it from gnawing on his vitals ; and a cup of hot gin sling, to promote 
repose. If she visited in his company, she would scarcely be 
seated, before she whispered in the ear of the hostess, — ‘Mr. Motey 
I tliink, my dear, would like to take a little something.’ 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


95 


‘‘ Mr. Motey was a man of talents. He had full possession of 
the love and respect of his parishioners, till he gradually lost them 
both, as this habit of intemperance became more manifest, from year 
to year. It is fully impressed upon my memory, that his conduct 
in the sanctuary was occasionally very extraordinary. I have 
known him deliver a funeral sermon in the morning, in his ordinary 
manner, himself apparently unmoved, while the relatives were 
evidently, convulsed with sorrow ; on the afternoon of the same day, 
I have heard him deliver a very common-place discourse, upon some 
point of doctrine, entirely unsusceptible of pathos, and, during the 
delivery, I have seen him shed tears profusely. At that time, rn) 
father, who wels a farmer, had a man in his service, who had pre- 
viously lived in the family of Parson Motey. This man heard my 
father expressing his surprise after meeting, and remarked that he 
guessed he knew how it happened. ‘ And how do you account for 
it, JedediahP said my father. ‘ Why, sir,’ he replied, ‘if I may 
be so bold, it ’s hot sling. It always acts jest so upon the old gen- 
tleman. The aM lady never fails to stir him up a mug arter 
preaching, and now the intermission ’s so short, it takes holt on 
him, jest about the eend of the second prayer or the beginning o’ 
the sarmon. Hot sling makes the old gentleman as kind as pie. 
He come out into the kitchen one Sunday night, and told me how 
he had some thoughts o’ building me a house and barn.’ 

“ His habits became, at length, so very bad, that the necessity of 
a separation began to be whispered about. Upon one occasion, we 
had rain for six days, without an hour’s intermission. It was in 
mowing time ; and , unfortunately, the farmers had cut vast quan- 
tities of hay, which lay spoiling on the ground. On Sunday after- 
noon, while it was pouring down in torrents. Parson Motey prayed 
most fervently, that the windows of heaven might be opened, 
complaining that the whole earth was turned to powder and dust. 
Farmer Thaxter, a neighbor of ours; who had cut forty acres, and 
had not got in a spire of it, was in a terrible passion ; but my 
father endeavored to soothe him by stating that such extraordinary 
prayers could not be granted. A committee was appointed to wait 
upon this poor old man, and warn him to avoid the discipline of the 
church, by retiring from the post, which he had dishonored. This 
committee held several meetings, but could not elect a chairman. 
Notwithstanding his misconduct of late years, no one of the com- 
mittee could be prevailed upon to take the lead, and be the herald 
of such painful tidings. One remembered that his earliest religious 
impressions had been received under this old man’s ministry; 
another had heard him, in better days, pouring forth his whole soul 


96 


THE STAGE-€OACH. 


in prayer, by the bedside of a dying- father. This perplexity, how* 
ever, was not of long duration. About a fortnight after the ap- 
pointment of the committee, it pleased God to take the cause into 
his own hands. An apoplectic fit terminated the old gentleman’s 
career. His widow survived him a few years only. Three of his 
children are drunken paupers in the poor-house of ■. 

Our pulpit was supplied for about three months, by different 
preachers. Of all those who officiated among us, no one appeared 
to excite so much interest, as the Reverend Philander Feather- 
weight. He was a very handsome young man, and certainly 
exerted a powerful influence, in calling out the unmarried females 
of our congregation, between the years of fifteen and thirty. JDur 
ing the last five years of Mr. Motey’s ministry, the McTweedle 
pew had remained almost entirely unoccupied ; but. no sooner was 
it matter of rational conjecture, that Mr. Featherweight would be 
our pastor, than the pew was furnished with new cushions, and the 
seven Miss McTweedles were constantly in their seats, during 
morning and evening service. Mr. Featherweight was undoubtedly 
indebted, not a little, to his personal appearance and address, for his 
rapid growth in the good graces of our young people. His whiskers 
were the largest, and the blackest, and altogether the handsomest, that 
had been sported in our parish, for many years ; though there were 
some, who thought them not quite so glossy, as those of young Ather- 
ton the stage-driver. When the Reverend Philander Featherweight 
walked across our common, with the velvet facing of his cloak thrown 
gracefully over his shoulder, d la cavalier, a warm-hearted friend of 
mine. Miss Arethusa Cooley, avowed her conviction that he would 
certainly fill the church. His dress and manner were, according to 
the good old standard, somewhat unprofessional. ‘ Even the dress 
of a clergyman,’ says an agreeable writer,* ‘ should be in character, 
and nothing can be more despicable than conceited attempts at avoid- 
ing the appearance of the clerical order ; attempts, which are as 
ineffectual as they are pitiful. Dr. Porteus, the Bishop of London, 
in his excellent charge, when presiding over the diocese of Chester, 
justly animadverts upon this subject, and observes of a reverend 
fop, that he can be but half a beau.’ — Mr. Featherweight’s ser- 
nons were exceedingly flowery, and his gestures were not ungrace- 
ful. Old Deacon Tower, who was a man of sterling worth, and 
sterling sense, was evidently dissatisfied with the new candidate. 
The deacon was a man of few words, and, when the Reverend Phi- 
lander Featherweight was commended, by some young people, ill 


* Boswell’s Life of Johnson, Lond. Ed. 1836. Vol. viii., p. 50. 


THE SrAGE-COACH. 


97 


the good deacon’s hearing, for his beautiful tropes and figures, and 
his elegant gestures, the deacon observed, with a pleasant smile, — 
‘ Not only so, but also.’ 

“ Mr. Featherweight was nevertheless getting to be very popular 
with our people, and it became pretty generally understood, that he 
would have an invitation to settle. These fair prospects were des- 
tined to be blasted. A deputy sheriff arrived in our village, and 
arrested the Rev. Philander Featherweight for a debt, contracted in 

the town of . Some of our people obtained a sight of the 

writ, and the account annexed, and it was soon whispered about, 
that the claim was for the amount of a confectioner’s bill of two 
years’ standing, and that the principal items were jellies, cakes, and 
cordials. ‘ What do you think of this?’ said my father to old Dea- 
con Tower. — ‘ Providential,’ — replied the deacon. This incident 
closed the account forever between our people and the Reverend 
Philander Featherweight. When the breach has been once effected, 
it is surprising how rapidly the waters will find their way through 
the crevasse. No sooner had the reputation of this young man 
become a questionable matter, than every sharp-shooter of the vil- 
lage made use of it for a target, and reports, of which several were 
but too well founded, were extensively circulated, to the disparage- 
ment of the Reverend Philander Featherweight. It was proved, 
beyond all doubt, that his habits were intemperate ; and that he had 
concealed his evil disposition, during his period of probation, that 
he might the more certainly secure a settlement. 

“We continued more than eighteen months, without a settled 
minister, depending, for the services of the sanctuary, upon such 
clergymen as we could obtain from week to week. Those individ- 
uals, upon whom the selection of a minister chiefly depended, had 
become extremely wary, and went to their work, after their past 
experiences, with fear and trembling. At last, the voice of the peo- 
ple appeared to fall, with a remarkable degree of unanimity, upon 
the Reverend Cyprian Pottle. He was about thirty years of age. 
His personal appearance was inferior to Mr. Featherweight’s, but 
he had the reputation of great learning and piety. He was short 
and thickset, with a round, rosy, shining face, brimful of honhom- 
mie. He was married; and, on that account, less likely to breed 
disturbance in the parish. After a careful investigation of his char 
acter, he was settled ; and the McTweedles soon fell into their old 
habit of neglecting the services of the sanctuary. ‘ Of one thing,’ 
said Deacon Tower, ‘ we are morally sure — Mr. Pottle never takes 
any spirit, and disapproves of it altogether.’ — Our new minister 
seemed determined to set the fears of the parish at rest on that 

VOL. II. 9 


98 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


score ; for, upon the third Sabbath after he had been settled among 
us, he preached a sermon on temperance. He spoke of the evils of 
drinking spirit, denouncing drunkenness, with unmeasured severity. 
Even at that early day, he had the boldness to declare his belief, 
that spirit was not only the frequent cause of poverty, and crime, 
and death itself, but that it was quite useless to mankind, unless in 
some extraordinary cases. At the close of this discourse, he inti- 
mated his intention to pursue the subject in the afternoon. 

“ Those, who had an abiding terror of the rock, upon which Par- 
son Motey had fallen, in his latter days, were greatly comforted by 
this discourse. Deacon Tower came forth from the meeting-Lousej 
with a smile of high satisfaction upon his countenance. — ‘ This is 
our man,’ said he, rubbing his hands together. — ‘ I ’ve rny doubts,’ 
said Colonel Millet, the tavern-keeper. — ‘Why, colonel,’ rejoined 
the deacon, ‘ you must not think too much of your trade.’ — ‘ ’T is n’t 
o’ my trade neither that I ’m a thinking, Deacon Tower,’ replied 
the colonel, ‘ but of your minister. Gurney, that teams for me, told 
me yesterday, when he went down to the city, that he carried a 
note from the minister to a wholesale dealer, and that he brought 
back a cask of English porter, marked Rev. Cyprian Pottle.’ — 
‘ Are you certain of this?’ inquired the deacon. — ‘ Jest as sartain,’ 
replied the colonel, ‘ as that your old mare ’s windgalled. Why, 
do you suppose it ’s skim-milk, that gives a body such a fresh color, 
deacon, eh?’ — The deacon was not much elated with this piece 
of information ; and, when he resumed his seat in the afternoon, his 
confidence was not quite so strong, as when he left it in the morn- 
ing. The habit of drinking spirit was so very general in our vil- 
lage, that the morning’s discourse gave no little offence. Neverthe- 
less, the meeting-house was unusually full in the afternoon ; many 
who were not present in the morning, had heard of the sermon, and 
were desirous of hearing the new minister handle a subject, which 
had never been brought before them by Parson Motey. — He took 
his text, in the afternoon, from Paul’s First Epistle to Timothy, 
fifth chapter, and twenty-third verse. Drink no longer water, hut 
use a little luine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities 
Some of the most sedate, among his parishioners, were greatly dis ■ 
turbed at Parson Pottle’s manner of handling this text. A frequent 
repetition of the passage occurred in his discourse ; and in no instance 
did his accent fall on the word little, but invariably on wine, as contra 
distinguished from water. He did not once advert to the important 
fact, that Timothy was a man of feeble constitution, a ‘ mortified 
man to the pleasures of sense,’’ as I think he is called by Henry, in 
hi8 commentary on this passage. Indeed, I have no doubt, that very 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


99 


many of Parson Pottle’s hearers were impressed vrith the idea, that 
this direction of the apostle was of general application. He stated 
expressly, that two reasons were offered by the apostle, for avoiding 
water, and drinking wine, one, the stornach^s sake, and the other, 
often infirmities, and that either was sufficient. He asserted that 
distilled spirit was unknown, as he supposed, in Paul’s time; that 
it was man’s contrivance ; but that fermented liquors were then 
known and commended ; that beer, especially, which was supposed 
to have been first made in Egypt, was a remarkably wholesome and 
nutritious beverage ; that it was a good creature of God ; that our 
Saviour made wine himself at the marriage feast ; and he strongly 
intimated, that it was very creditable to drink it occasionally, and 
always at weddings, as a testimony of respect for the Redeemer 
During the delivery of this discourse, the parson was exceedingly 
drowsy, and gaped repeatedly. After meeting. Deacon Towei 
endeavored to keep out of Colonel Millet’s way, and go home as 
soon as possible. But the colonel hailed him, as he was getting 
over the rail fence, to get home the shortest way ; and the deacon, 
who well knew the colonel’s boisterous manner, turned back into 
the road, and joined him, to prevent his remarks from being over- 
heard. ‘ Well, Deacon Tower,’ said he, ‘ what do you think of the 
new minister now?’ — The deacon shook his head, and looked 
grievously, but uttered not a syllable. — ‘Deacon,’ continued the 
colonel, ‘ my opinion isn’t no great shakes, I suppose, but I ’ll tell 
ye what Gurney, the teamster, said jest now, on the meeting-house 
steps, right out, afore everybody; says he, “If there baant hops 
and malt in that are sarment, my name ’s not Noah Gurney ; for,” 
says he, “ one o’ the bottles in the cask o’ porter I brought up for 
him, broke a coming up, and I ’d nothing to save it in, so I drank a 
part on ’t, and it took sich a holt o’ my narves, that I got sound 
asleep in my wagon, and, arter I woke, I felt, a good while, 
jest as the minister looked while he was a preaching.” — I guess 
we ’ve got out o’ the frying-pan slick into the fire, deacon.’ — The 
deacon shook his head mournfully, but ventured not to reply ; but 
the good old man was made sick by his painful apprehensions for 
the result. He was himself a highly respectable expounder of holy 
writ ; and he was severely shocked by such a palpable perversion 
of Scripture ; and, when he reflected upon the story of the cask of 
porter, and Parson Pottle’s lethargic manner, during the delivery of 
his afternoon’s discourse, he had some fears that the poor man’s 
appetite for stimulants had warped his construction of God’s word. 
Wine, in truth, said the good deacon within himself, is a mocker. 

“ Such were the habits of our people, that they would never have 


100 


THE STAGE-COAGH. 


thought of scrutinizing the private life and conversation of their min- 
ister, if he had not proclaiined open war upon their idols, in the form 
of stone jugs. His free indulgence in the use of fermented liquor 
would have passed unrebuked, had he not so severely reprobated 
their employment of distilled spirit. As it was, he had gone too far 
to retrace his steps with dignity or grace ; and the people were too 
highly incensed to forgive or forbear. He had thrown the first 
stone, and, in their judgment, gratuitously ; nay more, provokingly ; 
and there were some persevering spirits among them, who were 
resolved to ascertain, if any portion of the parson’s house were made 
of glass. — He, who has ever made a village his place of residence 
for any other than a very limited period, must have perceived how 
skilfully the art of espionage is conducted there. Hundreds of pry- 
ing eyes were turned upon the movements of the Reverend Cyprian 
Pottle. The tongues of man-servant and maid-servant were put in 
requisition, and the very ox and ass, had they been as talkative as 
Balaam’s, would have been examined and cross-examined by the 
parish. Ears, even the dullest of hearing in the village, were 
opened wide for the reception of a thousand tales. So that, by the 
combined exertions of eyes, ears, and tongues, it was well under- 
stood, in the course of a few months, precisely in what manner, 
from sun to sun, the parson lived, and moved, and had his being. 
The squabbles of Parson Pottle and his lady were soon bruited 
abroad ; it was even rumored, that they disputed which of the twain 
had drunk the larger half of the bottle of porter at the dinner-table. 
His reputation for piety and learning had undoubtedly been over- 
rated upon his first arrival ; and there were not a few, who now 
began to deny his legitimate title to either. He was not deficient 
in cunning and a ready apprehension of the characters of men. It 
required a brief application only of Parson Pottle’s powers, to fathom, 
to the very bottom, the simple, -single-hearted disposition of good, 
old Deacon Tower. The deacon, about a year after Mr. Pottle had 
come among us, was urged, by the graver portion of our people, 
to visit him, and advise him of the reports, which were circulating 
to his disadvantage. The deacon, though with great reluctance, 
waited upon him, to execute this embarrassing commission. The 
parson’s features were as flexible as caoutchouc ; and it was really 
surprising to witness the various expressions, which they assumed, 
as different emotions predominated over the inner man. Although 
they were s irrendered, at one moment, to the broadest development 
of perfect good-humor, at the next, they were the very image and 
superscription of the coldest austerity. He had been forewarned of 
the deacon’s design, and met his first accost, in such a formal and 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


101 


forbidding manner, that the old man departed, after a little unim- 
ponant conversation, without the slightest allusion to the real object 
of his visit. I have seldom met an individual, of as limited powers, 
whose look, and manner, and sonorous voice, had such a withering 
effect upon persons of indifferent nerves. I recollect an amusing 
illustration of this fact. I called one day at the parsonage, with a 
neighbor of ours, a Mrs. Matilda Moodey. After a pause, ‘ Mr. 
Pottle,’ said she, ‘I am almost ashamed to confess my ignorance, 
but you said something in your last discourse, which I did not ex- 
actly understand.’ — ‘ Well, madam,’ said he, with a loud voice and 
stern expression, ‘and pray what was itP — ‘ O, dear sir,’ she 
replied, evidently confounded by his manner, ‘ I don’t doubt, in the 
least, that it was owing to m]’- weak understanding ; but you said, 
sir, — speaking of the' wiles of Satan, — as if as though to circum- 
vent thee.' — ‘ O — ah — yes, Mrs. Moodey,’ he answered, ‘ I well 
remember that expression. The meaning of those words, madam,’ 
raising his voice to a terrible pitch, and striking his hand violently 
upon the table, — ‘ the meaning of those words is this, Mrs. Moodey, 
— AS IF AS THOUGH TO CIRCUMVENT THEE.’ — ‘ O dear me, Parson 
Pottle,’ cried Mrs. Moodey, with a trembling voice, ‘ how very clear 
you make it now !’ 

“ Mr. Pottle had unfortunately placed himself between the cross- 
fires of his parishioners : those who drank spirit, were incensed 
against him as a matter of course ; and the grave and temperate 
members of his^ congregation were thoroughly disgusted by his 
theory and practice ; his theory, as exhibited in his sermon upon 
Paul’s counsel to Timoth}’- ; and his practice, most unhappily illus- 
trated by a very free and habitual use of malt liquor, whose evil 
consequences were too frequently made manifest in a variety of 
ways. Nevertheless he had several stanch friends in the parish. 
He was particularly attentive to the children of his parishioners, in 
the presence of their parents, whose favor he frequently secured, by 
these little courtesies. He continued among us for several years, 
though very little, as I am compelled to believe, to the edification of 
our people. He certainly was instrumental in bringing among us 
the free and familiar use of wine and porter. Dry visitation was a 
thing almost unknown among the clergy of those days ; and the 
parishioners of Parson Pottle were as unlikely, as those of any 
other clergyman, to perpetrate a flagrant violation of the standing 
laws of hospitality. He had publicly pronounced an anathema 
against distilled liquors ; and all, who were desirous of standing 
well with their spiritual guide, carefully concealed their rum-jugi 
and brandv-botties from his observation, whose places were abun- 

VOL. II. 9 * 


102 


THF STAGE-COACa 


dantly supplied with wine and porter. Of these he cheerfully pa^ 
took, wherever he went ; and, as he was remarkable for his parochial 
attentions, and particularly heedful, at meals, of that portion of 
Paul’s counsel, which commands to ^ drink no longer water,' it is 
not wonderful, that the sad effects of this daily practice were occa- 
sionally exhibited before the members of his congregation. His 
excess of garrulous good-nature, in the morning, began to be almost 
habitually contrasted with his irritable lethargy in the afternoon. 
He became excessively corpulent, and the bloated visage and triple 
chin bore ample testimony to the farinaceous properties of malt 
liquor. At length, the habit became inordinate, and its consequences 
truly deplorable. When he entered the house of a parishioner, he 
was scarcely seated, before he asked for a tumbler of porter or a 
glass of wine, seemingly with as little rationality of motive, as may 
be supposed to govern the movements of a child, who labors under 
some affection of the nervous system. His step became unsteady ; 
and, now and then, under the appearance of talking by the way, it 
became exceedingly convenient to rely upon some worthy parish- 
ioner’s arm, as far as the parsonage. 

“ There were several moderate drinkers of ardent spirit, of strong 
heads and iron constitutions, whose industry, activity, and orderly 
appearance, were extremely disadvantageous to Parson Pottle’s 
theory. These men were frequently cited by the rum-drinkers and 
rum-sellers ; and, upon a Sabbath day, when the parties were 
coming forth, at the same moment, from the meeting-house door, it 
was no uncommon thing to hear an invidious comparison between 
the rugged appearance and active gait of old Farmer Furrowdale, 
who drank spirit, though in great moderation, and the unwieldy 
person and paralytic step of Parson Pottle, whose principal beverage 
was malt liquor. 

“ In course of time, it began to be whispered about the parish, 
that, where good brandy could be had, and malt liquor could not, 
Mr. Pottle would not refuse to partake of that, which was set before 
him, asking no questions for conscience’ sake. From this period, 
he fell away rapidly ; and, after a time, scarcely anything remained 
to mark the holy man, beside the outward insignia of the clerical 
office. My father used t® say, that it was of little importance, at 
which side of the pond a person entered to cross over, if the whirl- 
pool were in the middle ; meaning, that the chief danger lay in the 
habit of drinking, which, when once confirmed, would as probably 
lead its victim to drunkenness, through the agency of one intoxical 
ing liquor as of another. The services of the sanctuary, especially 
in the afternoon, were so improperly conducted, that the more 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


103 


religious frequently resorted to the adjoining village ; some remained 
at home, and others attended, in any bat a becoming spirit. Upon 
one occasion, when the people had assembled, notice was given, 
that the Reverend Mr. Pottle was taken suddenly unwell. It was 
afterwards satisfactorily established, that he was too entirely over- 
come by liquor to officiate. 

“We had, in our congregation, at that time, several young men 
of steady habits, farmers and mechanics, who were married, and 
who, though not members of the church, had the reputation of being 
s: rictly moral men. Some of them had families ; and, as the cler- 
gyman’s example was constantly presented before their eyes, they 
were very naturally apprehensive of its influence upon their chil- 
dren. They were indignant also at Parson Pottle’s conduct, esteem- 
ing it a reproach upon their native village. They therefore resolved, 
to use their own words, ‘ to fix the minister.^ One of their number 
told my husband, confidentially, that they had laid their plan ; and, 
since the elders and church-members would not take the matter up, 
they were determined ‘ to fix the minister;'’ but he begged my hus- 
band to say nothing of the matter to Deacon Tower. My husband, 
however, would not consent to keep their secret. This precipitated 
the execution of their scheme, which was carried into effect the 
very next day, and before my husband could inform the deacon of 
their designs. The pain which one feels, while recounting tfie 
degrading history of a drunken clergyman, would be unmingled, 
were it not for the impressive and valuable lesson, which it teaches, 
in connection with the total abstinence reform. It shows, that even 
the holy office, the solemn consecration of one’s powers to the ser- 
vice of Almighty God, the sanctity of those vows, which are made 
upon the very altar, are all insufficient to save poor human nature 
from the effects of this sweeping scourge. No man may rightfully 
complain of an adder’s sting, if he will take it to his bosom, with a 
knowledge of its properties and powers. — The remainder of this 
revolting tale may be briefly told. On the day after thei^ design 
had been communicated to my husband, they so arranged their plan, 
as to have the clergyman invited to dine at the house of one of their 
number, in a distant part of the village, who plied him so success- 
fully with wine and ale, that he had some difficulty in walking, 
when he left the house after dinner. He had not gone far on his 
way home, before he v’ls encountered by another, who persuaded 
him to A^ alk in. 7'here again the process was repeated, and again, 
after an hour’s compotation, he ventured forth, scarcely able to 
stagger homeward. He had gotten, with infinite difficulty, half 
a mile further on his way, and stood resting against the wall, 


J04 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


near the house of a Mr. Clinch, a carpenter, another of the con- 
spirators, who had resolved to fix the minister.^ Clinch had his 
eye upon him, and approached the spot where he stood. — ‘ Bless 
my heart, parson,’ said he, ‘ is it you? Why, I want to know ! 
Why, you baant well, I guess, or you wouldn’t be to roost on the 
wall here, I reckon.’ — ‘I’m a little uneasy,’ said the minister. 

‘ It ’s all owing to boiled pork ; I ’ll never touch it again.’ — ‘ Boiled 
pork, hey? — why, how you talk! — boiled in a brew-house, I 
guess, by the smell o’ your breath, parson. But come, go in with 
me, and try a hair o’ the old dog.’ — ‘ Thank ye, Mr. Bailey,’ said 
the minister. — ‘ It isn’t Bailey,’ said the other ; ‘ it ’s John Clinch, 
the carpenter; don’t ye know me?’ — Clinch helped him into 
his house, and there the work of utter drunkenness was consum- 
mated. Before nine o’clock, the minister was in as profound a. 
slumber, as could be produced by the agency of hops and malt. 

“ A little after ten, that night, and when I had been in bed about 
half an hour, my husband got up, in consequence of a loud rapping 
at the front door. He opened the window, and discovered more 
than a dozen young men underneath. The moon shone brightly, 
and he instantly recognized their persons. — ‘Come down,’ said 
Clinch. — ‘What’s the matter?’ inquired my husband. — ‘Come 
down, and see with your own eyes,’ cried one of their number. I 
threw my clothes loosely over me, and looked out of the window, 
while my husband went below. Four of them supported a hoard, 
with side pieces, which Clinch, as I afterwards heard, had knocked 
up for the occasion ; on the top of the hoard I perceived something, 
the nature of which I did not then comprehend, covered with a bed- 
quilt. When my husband had joined them. Clinch threw down the 
upper part of the quilt, and said, ‘ Did n't we tell ye we 'd fix himV 
I instantly recognized the features of Parson Pottle. My husband 
rebuked them for their conduct ; but three or four exclaimed at once, 
that their children should not be catechized by a drunken minister 
My husband inquired what they designed to do with him. They 
replied, that they meant to show him to Deacon Tower and three or 
four more, and then put him to bed in his own house ; and that not 
a hair of his head should be injured. They then moved off, two and 
two, with Clinch at their head, repeating as he went, — ‘ Drink no 
longer water ^ hut use a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine 
often infirmities.' " 

When the lady had closed her narrative, — “ Pray, madam,” said 
the gentleman in black, who sat next me, “ do you vouch for the 
truth of this extraordinary story?” — “A part of it, sir,” she 
replied, “ I saw, as I have already told you ; and the circumstances 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


lOS 

as I have relatsd them, were as well known and as firmly believed, 
in our village, as the surrender of Yorktown by Lord Cornwallis.” 

— “ should like to see those young men,” said the gentleman in 
black, “ tied up by their thumbs, and flogged for half an hour, with 
a cat- 0 ’-nine-tails.” — “And I, myself,” said the Dutchman, 
“ vould like dat de minishter should have de benefit of de same 
tails for de toder half hour.” — “I presume, sir,” said the elderly 
gentleman to the first speaker, who had thus given vent to his indig- 
nation, “ that you are a clergyman ; and, if 1 am correct, I devoutly 
hope,' for the sake of your parishioners, that you are a thorough- 
going temperance man.” — “ Sir,” replied the gentleman in black, 
“ you are right in your conjecture ; I have been for four and twenty 
years in the ministry ; and, as a pledged member of a total absti- 
nence society, I have contributed, within my humble sphere, to 
advance the reformation. But I confess to you, that, under a gov- 
ernment of laws, which proposes to find a remedy for every wrong, 
I have felt pained and shocked at such conduct, on the part of any 
men, alfecting to be civilized, towards a minister of the gospel. He 
was a subject for the discipline of the church, and, upon the request 
of his parishioners, the bond between him and his people would have 
been severed.” — “You must not suppose, sir,” said the lady, 
“ that the respectable portion of our people approved of such con- 
duct. The young men themselves were heartily ashamed of it ; 
and, before Mr. Pottle left the village, which he did shortly after, 

— for he never preached there again, — some of these young men 
had the good sense to call on him, and express their deep regret for 
their share in such unbecoming conduct, and ask his forgiveness. 
As these young men were otherwise unblemished in reputation, and 
strictly temperate, I have related this story, to show the danger which 
lies in the path of a clergyman who meddles with intoxicating drink, 

— whose employment may sink his character so very low, that even 
an association, not of profligates, but of well-meaning, though 
misguided young men, may be gradually worked up, by his gross 
intemperance, to the perpetration of such an outrage.” — “Your 
motives for relating this story, madam,” said the elderly gentleman, 
“ are, in my judgment, just such as they should be ; and I should 
rejoice to have it printed at full length, upon the inside of every wine 
and beer drinking clergyman’s pulpit in the land.” — “ Dat ish de 
plane for it,” cried the Dutchman, thumping the stage-floor with 
his hickory, “dat ish de vary place for it ; only shtick up dat 
ehtory vat de lady hash told, in de pulpit of every minishter vat 
trinks de vine and de ale, and I vill zay netting more apout de cat 
o’-nine-tails. ” — “ Well, sir,” said the elderly gentleman, turning 


106 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


to my next neighbor, “ we have many miles yet to ride ; - suppose 
we draw upon your stock, for the next temperance tale.” — “ With 
all my heart, sir,” replied the clergyman. “ The history of drunk- 
enness has been almost an universal history. Its deep lines hav** 
been written among the people of every city and village upon earth , 
and there will be no difficulty in gathering the materials together 
I will relate to you the history of my own parish.” 


‘ PART FIFTH. 

“ I have been the minister of Micklefield for four and twenty 
years ; and there is not, I apprehend, upon the surface of the earth, a 
town of equal population, whose present prosperity is more certainly 
attributable to the temperance reform. Twenty-four years ago, its 
inhabitants were remarkable for their sloth, ignorance, irreligion, 
poverty and rags. To swear like a Micklefield man, was not then 
less a proverb, in the region round about, than to drink like a Scyth- 
ian, among the Greeks of old. The foundation of this miserable 
condition of things lay, broad and deep, in the immemorial habits 
of the people. They were drunkards of a drunken stock. Drunk- 
enness there had sj long and so triumphantly prevailed, that, in the 
language of the Uw, the memory of man ran not to the contrary. 

“ When I wis first settled, three distilleries were in full operation 
in this village. Micklefield is situated upon the banks of a naviga- 
ble stream. It was at that time surrounded- with pitch-pine forests. 
No position could therefore have been more eligible for a distil- 
ler. It would be an interminable task, to calculate the amount of 
molasses, that came up this river, or the rum that went down. 
Micklefield, some four and twenty years ago, was cursed with no 
less than nine men, ^ .of sober lives and conversations,' who perpet- 
uated intemperance, and kept up the average stock of common and 
uncommon drunkards, from year to year. At the period, to which I 
refer, I well remember, that twelve barrels of rum were the annual 
supply for the poor-house. Ammunition has never been accounted 
more indispensable, for the purposes of war, than were rum, gin, 
irid brandy, for the preservation of the social compact, among the 
inhabitants of Micklefield. The vapors of the Asphaltite lake, if its 
ancient legends were other than fabulous, could not have proved 
more fatal to those luckless birds, that attempted to fly over its nox- 
ious waters, than the moral atmosphere of Micklefield to such young 
men, as ventured to reside for any length of time, within its bor- 


THE STAGE-C©ACH. 


107 


ders. He, who will live at Rome, must conform to the habits of 
the Romans. — Never was the proverb more forcibly employed, 
than upon such as came from time to time, to settle within the pre* 
cincts of this intemperate village. Few — very few — escaped the 
pestilential influence, and many bej:ame incorrigible drunkards. 

“ That man must have been destitute indeed, who could not ten- 
der to his visitor the means of getting drunk ; and none but an 
?iscetic or an anchorite would have rejected the boon. The prof- 
fered cup and its ready acceptance were equally required, by the 
existing rules of good-breeding. The poor widow, who was about 
to commit her drunken husband to the ground, would have been 
accounted guilty of gross indecorum, had she omitted to grace his 
I'uneral obsequies, by offering, as a refreshment, the very poison, 
which had put the miserable victim out of life. 

“ My predecessor, in the ministry, at Micklefield, was a gentle- 
man of popular manners. He was not a man of great talents as a 
preacher ; but, in the parochial relation, he had made himself uni- 
versally acceptable. There was not a man, woman, nor child in 
the village of Micklefield, to whom his visits were not exceedingly 
agreeable. He drank and talked politics with the men ; chatted 
with the women about their dairies and poultry-yards ; and never 
failed to carry in his pockets an adequate supply of gingerbread and 
candy for the children. He was the man of the people. He insti- 
tuted no uncomfortable espionage, touching their lack of spiritual 
graces ; and, so far as it was in his gift, he gave them heaven, 
pretty much upon their own terms. He died at the early age of 
thirty-eight, having been their pastor for seven years. There was but 
one opinion of his virtues, and all were perfectly agreed in the pro- 
nunciation of the sententious and significant eulogium, that Parson 
Southerly was a ‘ raal, nice man.' Had he lived, at the present 
time, he would have been called an in1;emperate man ; yet, in his 
day, such an imputation would have been unpardonable slander. A 
post mortem examination of the body, in connection with his well- 
known habits, readily settled the question as to the cause of his 
decease. Instead of charging his death to intemperance, however, 
it was simply proclaimed, that his internal organization was not 
strong enough to sustain life. The prolongation of existence, in 
those days, was a more difficult affair, than it is at present. The 
terms of social intercourse were then well understood. It was no 
easy matter, to live in society and yet violate its laws. While 
many were allured by the love of intoxicating liquor, ethers were 
compelled by the fear of ridicule. That measure of indulgence^ 
which, in our auspicious era, would certainly be called hard drink 


1@3 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


ing, was then accounted by many, one of the conditions of exis- 
tence in the social state. Millions, whom we should now' consider 
grossly intemperate, ha’^e been committed to their graves, without 
a whisper of reproach, without a suspicion of error or impropriety in 
regard to their habits of life. 

“For several months after my settlement at Micklefield, I heard 
little beside the praises of the late Mr. Southerly. My spirits were 
often depressed, by the ejaculations of the good wives, at every visi- 
tation. — ‘There never was anything like dear Mr. Southerly.’ — 
‘We shall never be able to- supply poor Mr. Southerly’s loss.’ — 
‘ O, Mr. Meredith, you don’t know what a dear, cheerful soul, Mr. 
Southerly was.’ — ‘ Don’t mind Tommy’s running his hands in your 
pockets, Mr. Meredith ; he thinks it ’s Mr. Southerly, who always 
brought him gingerbread ; blessed man, we never shall make his 
place good.’ 

■“ Nevertheless I exerted my abilities to the utmost. I was de- 
termined to please the people, and I did not perceive, that my quali- 
fications were inferior to those of my highly-favored predecessor 
I resolved to walk in his steps as closely as possible. I was par- 
ticularly attentive to the females of my parish ; and, as I had the 
advantage over my predecessor, in youth and personal appearance, 
I flattered myself, that I should obtain their suffrages at least. 1 
chatted sociably with the men, and tasted their flip and toddy, which, 
by the way, at that time, were never agreeable to me. I also laid 
in a respectable stock of gingerbread and candy. Thus provided, I 
commenced my parochial career, resolved to equal, and hoping to 
surpass, my great exemplar, the Reverend Hallowell Southerly. I 
blush to think how small a portion of my thoughts were bestowed 
upon the spiritual occasions of my people. I trust God has forgiven 
me, and that the devotion of my life, for the last twenty years, to 
his service, will be suffered to outweigh my previous delinquency. 

“ The hardest day’s duty, which I have ever performed, was the 
first of my parochial visitation in the parish of Micklefield. My 
parishioners were scattered broadcast over the village. It was my 
intention to call on every family ; and I was desirous, that I might 
avoid the appearance of individual neglect, to compress my visita- 
tions within as little time as possible. I marked down five and 
twenty visits for the morning. At the very first house, at which I 
called, though it was quite early in the day, I was scarcely seated, 
before the brandy-bottle was produced. In my peculiar situation, 
my reputation at stake, and the example of the Reverend Hallowell 
Southerly before me, it would have been madness to refuse. I 
•ccordingly swallowed my first pastoral dram, and had the satisfac- 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


109 


tion to perceive, that I had made a favorable impression. As 1 rose 
to go, I put into Mrs. Mullikin’s hands a few sticks of candy, and 
begged her to give them to her children. I was a little embarrassed 
by the good woman’s tittering laugh, as she informed me, that they 
had been married nine years, without any prospect of an heir. When 
I had gotten half through my all(»tted task, I began to feel some 
doubts of my ability to persevere. I had stopped at the house of a 
Widow Bloomfield, having then made thirteen pastoral visits, and 
drunken the same number of drams. The poor widow, who was in 
a very humble condition of life, had set upon the table a common 
black bottle of New England rum, with a broken sugar-bowl, con- 
taining a little brown sweetening, and an iron spoon. I thought I 
might venture to refuse, without giving offence. ‘Hadn’t you 
better?’ said she, with a half-inquiring, half-mortified expression. — 
‘ No, I thank you, Mrs. Bloomfield,’ said I, ‘ I have no occasion.’ 

— ‘ I saw you come out of Squire Hodgedon's,’ said she ; ‘ I guess 
you got some Jamaica at the Squire’s, didn’t you, Mr. Meredith?’ 

— ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I took a little.’ — ‘I thought so,’ said she; 
‘ lack-a-day ! how this world goes by favor ! Mr. Bloomfield was 
well on ’t once himself, and we used to keep a leetle o’ the West 
India just to treat with. But — ah dear me ! — a poor lone woman ’s 
got no better than her best. Did you know Mr. Southerly?’ — ‘ I 
never saw him,’ said I. — ‘ Well, I spose not,’ she replied ; ‘ he was 
a saint upon earth ; he used to say, the Lord was no respecter of 
persons, and no more wasn't he ; and then he ’d take and pour out 
half a tumbler out o’ that are vary black bottle, as sociable as ever 
YOU see.’ — ‘ Well, well, Mrs. Bloomfield,’ said I, ‘ it was not from 
any disrespect, and I ’ll take a little of your spirit with pleasure. ’ I 
accordingly, inexpressibly against my feelings, swallowed my four- 
teenth dram. — ‘ There,’ cried the poor woman, ‘now I’ll come 
and hear you preach ; but if you hadn’t done the civil thing, you 
wouldn’t ha’ cotched me inside your meeting-house, I tell ye.’ 

“ My next call was at the house of Farmer Kidder. He was an 
old man, and the richest farmer in the county. In rustic phrase- 
ology, they were excellent livers, — those that survived, — three of 
the old man’s sons had died intemperate, within the four years pre- 
ce( mg. I had scarcely entered their bettermost room, when the 
ol(. lady came hobbling towards me, holding a pitcher, smoking hot. 

— ‘ We seed you, Mr. Meredith,’ said she, ‘ as you was a going 
Lr..o the widow Bloomfield’s, and we knew you ’d give us a call ; so 
I said to the galls, says I, — Galls, roast a couple o’ the best Bald- 
wins, galls, and clap in the poker, for he ’ll be here in a jiffy. You 
got pretty streaked stuff, I guess, at the poor widow’s; howsomes- 

VOL. II 10 


no 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


ever, she ’s a gin’rous old soul, what there is of her, and she ’ll gite 
ye the best she ’s got, any how. There, Mr. Meredith, taste o’ this 
here apple-toddy.’ — She poured out a full tumbler. I felt myself 
excessively dizzy and confused, and was sensible already, that I had 
lost the power of distinct articulation, yet I dared not refuse, at the 
house of one of my wealthiest parishioners. The toddy was excel- 
lent. I said so, cautiously avoiding long words, and fixing my eyes 
upon a particular object to keep my head from swimming. The old 
lady was in raptures, and poured out a second tumbler. I signified 
my reluctance, by an uplifted hand and a shake of the head. She 
persisted however, and her daughters were importunate. ‘ O, Mr. 
Meredith,’ cried the old woman, ‘ dear good Mr. Southerly always 
took two. He used to say, if the first made him feel a leetle queer- 
ish, the second sobered him again. A hair o’ the same dog, you 
know, Mr. Meredith.’ — For an instant, it occurred to me, that 1 
was already drunk, — that the old woman and her daughters had 
discovered my situation, and were making themselves merry at my 
expense. I felt the blood rushing to my forehead. — A hasty glance 
at the trio reassured me, however, in a moment. Though I w'as 
then unquestionably the worse for liquor, they were either uncon- 
scious or regardless of a matter, so exceedingly familiar to them all, 
and continued to press their civility, until their tipsy minister had 
swallowed the second potation of apple-toddy. 

“ When I regained the road, I resolved to get home as soon as 
possible. Ten of my destined visitations were unperformed. In a 
few hours, including my two tumblers of apple-toddy, I had taken 
sixteen drams, and was fully sensible, that I was shamefully drunk. 
I kept my eyes fixed upon the centre of the road, and walked rapidly, 
occasionally running a rod or two, when I felt myself inclining to 
stagger. In this manner I had nearly reached my lodgings, when 
Deacon Anthony ran out from his house to speak with me. He 
urged me to stop, but I told him, that I was troubled with sickness 
at the stomach. — ‘ It ’s a sharp morning,’ said he, ‘ and you ’ll be 
better, if you step in and take a glass of brandy or some bitters.’ I 
positively declined, however, and, hastening home, repaired to my 
chamber, — locked the door, — and threw myself upon my bed 

“ My landlady was a kind-hearted widow, between fifty and sixty 
^ears of age. She had the reputation of sincerity and discretion 
J became excessively sick, and my desire for some species of relief 
finally surmounted my reluctance to make a full confession of my 
shame and folly. — I requested my landlady to step into my cham- 
ber, and, with very considerable stammering and circumlocution, 
made a fclean bre^ast hteftfire this tr.Jy catholic eOnfessori*-- who 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


11 


laughed heartily at my confusion. ‘ Bless you, Mr. Meredith,’ said 
she, ‘ what a terrible fuss you have made about just nothing at all. 
Why, I certainly thought you was going to tell me you was in debt, 
or in love, or something of that sort. You must have some boiling 
hot coffee and buttered toast. That ’s what I used to get always 
for Mr. Southerly. He boarded with me two years, when he was 
first settled. He was corned twenty times, before he got seasoned. 
You ’ll get used to it, one of these days, Mr. Meredith, just as Mr. 
Southerly did.’ — From that time, I conceived a very high opinion 
of my landlady ; her coffee and buttered toast relieved my body of 
no small portion of its torment, and the very philosophical view, 
which she had taken of the whole affair, afforded unspeakable com- 
fort to my mind There can be no more perfect illustration of the 
imperfection of my own moral sense, nor of the weakness of my 
own principles, at that period of my life. 

“ Upon the following morning, I was sufficiently recovered, to 
resume the performance of my parochial duties. Experience, how- 
ever, had taught me to husband my energies ; I soon found, that 1 
could bear half a dozen drams, of a morning, exceedingly well, and 
I limited my pastoral visits accordingly. In the course of three or 
four months, I had become perfectly familiar with the duties of my 
vocation, as I then understood them ; and that frequent use of stimu- 
lants, which had been decidedly disagreeable in the commencement 
of my pastoral career, in less than six months, became not only 
agreeable, but even essential, as I then imagined, to my health and 
comfort. At ordinations, funerals, and weddings, I fully sustained 
my character, as a worthy successor of the Reverend Hallow’ell 
Southerly. 

“ He, who has taken the king’s bounty, saith the proverb, must 
stand by the monarch and his cause. I had so far sanctioned the 
habits of my parishioners, by my own practical acquiescence, that, if 
I had been willing to admonish, the language of reproof .would have 
come with an ill grace from their pastor. Words of sage counsel 
fall but with feeble power upon a drunkard’s ear, from alcoholic 
lips. Of all the follies and vices, which came to my knowledge, 
intemperance and its manifold effects were the last, which I felt 
myself at liber< / to rebuke. During the first four years of my min- 
istry, many drunkards paid the debt of nature in the village of 
Mickhfield ; and I doubt, if there be a place of sepulture upon 
earth, containing an equal congregation of the dead, whence a 
greater number will arise, in the day of the resurrection, from t.ie 
drunkard’s grave. 

“ During these three or four yeajs, I do not deny, that 1 had 


112 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


many compunctious visitations of conscience. The weight of my 
r**si»oasil)ility occasionally became oppressive; and, more than once, 
I resolved to abandon my faithless stewardship, and w.n my bread, 
in some humbler vocation. I think 1 should nave done so, if the 
intercessions of Deacon Anthony had not prevailed against my jutlg- 
ment at that time. The deacon was an excellent man ; but, accor- 
ding to the universal practice of the age, he used brandy, as a 
common beverage. He candidly declared to me, that it was a groat 
help to him in prayer and exhortation. I told him, that I had 
sometimes been pricked with a conviction, that I was an unfr.ithful 
steward ; that I beheld drunkards dying all around me ; that, 
although there was a great amount of drunkenness in almost every 
other village, Micklefield had become a by- word ; that, when I first 
became its minister, I was temperate, and even abstemious ; but 
now, I had so fallen under the influence of the social rule, that I 
often felt myself the worse for liquor ; and that I thought it my duty 
to ask a dismission. — I must honestly admit, that, while the lady 
was relating her narrative of the unfortunate Mr. Pottle, my 
thoughts were repeatedly carried back to the first four years of my 
ministry in Micklefield. — Deacon Anthony begged me not to think 
of a separation. He assured me, that I was quite as popular as Mr. 
Southerly had been, in his very best days ; that the people were not 
worse than they had been, at that time ; that spirit, though a good 
thing, and one of the necessaries of life, would, like other good 
things, be abused by some people of course ; that there had always 
been about seventy or eighty common drunkards in Micklefield, for 
forty years, ever since he had kept shop, and that the population 
had remained about the same ; that it did not seem to him that 
seventy drunkards in a population of seven hundred were more than 
might be expected ; that, whether I staid or went, things would 
go on much after the old sort ; and that the people would make the 
parish too hot for any minister, that drew the cord too tight for 
them. I told the deacon, that there was a great amount of intem- 
perance in Micklefield, among those, who would never be accounted 
common drunkards ; that I should be unwilling to be ranked in that 
class myself ; but that I was convinced my habits had already 
injured my health and diminished my usefulness. The deacon 
smiled, and told me I was apt to be low-spirited ; and, with such a 
patronizing and confident expression, poured out and handed me a 
glass of bitters, that I swallowed the prescription, half satisfied that 
my opinions were vain imaginations after all, possibly the result of 
hypochondriasis. 

“ Upon one point I could not be deceived : I had lost my appetite 


THE STAGE- ;OACH. 


113 


and strength ; my slumbers were broken and unrefresbing ; pains m 
the head, stomach, and bowels tormented me with little interrup- 
tion ; and my craving for strong drink became more troublesome and 
uncontrollable. 

“ Shortly after I had made a statement of my views and feelings 
to Deacon 'Anthony, I was called to administer Christian consolation 
to a parishioner, who was upon her death-bed. Mrs. Kidder bad 
buried her husband about eight months before. He was a very 
respectable drunkard. I mean to say, that, for some years before 
his death, he was careful never to appear abroad, when he was the 
worse for liquor." He never frequented the dram-shops of the vil- 
lage ; but, being a wealthy farmer, his house was most hospitably 
stored with the means of indulgence, and he confined his operations 
to the bosom of his family. His widow was now about to be called 
from this world. Her death was a hard one. She dreaded to die, 
or rather her agonized spirit longed to live. Our miserable relation 
to each other had poorly qualified me for the office of counsellor, in 
such an hour as this. I have never felt my sinful deficiency more 
sensibly than upon this occasion. It was an awful trial. When I 
entered. Dr. Snuffler, the physician of Micklefield, was present, and 
no other person, excepting the old lady’s daughters. Her mind was 
highly excited, partly by bodily pain, partly by the dread of dissolu- 
tion, and partly by liquor. I felt myself exceedingly embarrassed 
in the performance of my duty. The familiar, and even undignified, 
intercourse, which was an unavoidable consequence of the dram- 
drinking habits of the times, not only deprived the present occasion 
of its solemnity, but filled the principal performer with a sense of 
unseasonable diffidence and shame. — ‘ Dear Dr. Snuffler,’ said the 
poor victim, as I drew near the bed, ‘ I won’t die.’ — ‘ Well, well,’ 
said the doctor, ‘ we ’ll see about it ; maybe you won’t.’ — ‘ I tell 
you I won’t die,’ she replied. — ‘ The old lady ’s pretty much lost 
her mind,’ said the doctor. — ‘ No such thing,’ said she ; ‘ I tell you 
X won’t die — I won’t.’ — ‘Mrs. Kidder,’ said the doctor, ‘here’s 
Mr. Meredith come to make a prayer.’ — ‘ I won’t have no prayer,’ 
said she ; ‘ I ’ll have some more apple-toddy.’ — ‘ She ’s had four 
tumblers this forenoon,’ said one of the daughters. — ‘ Never mind,’ 
said the doctor, ‘ it ’ll make no difference ; give her another, and 
she ’ll lay quieter during the prayer.’ In such a condition of things, 
I attempted to pray, the old lady interrupting me continually with 
cries for apple-toddy, and declarations that she would not die. — I 
resumed my seat. — The sweat stood in big drops upon my brow. 
— ‘ You are not well yourself, Mr. Meredith,’ said the doctor, as he 
felt ray pulse. — I made no reply. — My spirit had never been se 

VOL. II. 10 * 


114 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


exercised before. As I prayed, the thought o\erpowered me, that 
I had been nearly four years tl e pastor of tiiis dying, impenitent 
sinner, and that I had done literally — absolutely — nothing, for the 
salvation of her soul. — I almost fancied myself at the bar of God, 
holding in my trembling hand the barren record of my miserable 
stewardship. — The doctor’s attention was soon called to the dying 
woman. — ‘ She is going,’ said he, — ‘ see, how she catches at the 
bed-clothes!’ Amidst the sound of the death-rattle in her throat, 
though more and more faintly, she continued to exclaim, ‘ I won’t 
— I won’t.’ — The ruling passion was still strong in death, — for 
the very last words that I heard were — ‘ apple-toddy.’ — One strong 
convulsion closed the scene. 

“ I returned to my lodgings in a state of great mental depression. 
The exertions of my well-meaning landlady to raise my spirits were 
ineffectual. I passed a restless night, and the next morning was 
unable to rise from my bed. My habits had undoubtedly affected 
my general health. Dr. Snufiler was called in, and stated that my 
symptoms were such as commonly preceded a typhus fever. His 
prognostications were correct. For seven weeks, I was confined to 
my chamber ; and, during a considerable portion of that time, I was 
delirious. When, at length, it pleased God to restore my reason, 
the first object, which engrossed my attention, w^as a young man, 
about four and twenty years of age, who was sitting by my bed- 
side, and holding my hand. I gazed intently upon his features ; — 
they were those of an utter stranger. I had never beheld an expres- 
sion more perfectly gentle and serene. — ‘ I have been wild and 
wandering,’ said I. — The stranger made no answer to my remark, 
but eyed me with a look of doubtful scrutiny, as one who still ques- 
tioned the perfect restoration of my reason. — ‘ To whom,’ said I 
am I indebted, for these kind attentions?’ — ‘ My name is Ander- 
.on,’ he replied. ‘ I have supplied your pulpit for the last two 
Sabbaths.’ — ‘ Ah, my friend,’ said T, ‘ if you have told my people 
the whole truth, you have told them that, which they have neve’ 
heard from their unworthy pastor.’ — His countenance became sud 
denly grave, and even austere. — ‘Mr. Meredith,’ said he, ‘you 
are too feeble for this topic at present. You have been very ill ; 
you have been in peril ; your life has been despaired of. I have 
knelt daily at your bed-side ; will it not soothe your spirit, to have 
me offer thanksgiving for the restoration of your reason?’ — ‘ O, 
yes, my friend,’ said I ; — ‘ but stay, — I have been a faithless shep- 
herd, for more than three years, and have not fed the sheep, that 
have been committed to my care. This awful consciousness has 
aggravated my distemper.’ — ‘ It has been the subject of your inoo- 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


115 


herent prayers, and wild ejaculations, during your illness,’ said he. 
— ‘ I have vowed, if the Lord should spare me ’ continued I, ‘ to 
lead a new life, and to serve God, and not Baa. ; pray, I beseech 
you, that I may have the influence of the Holy Spirit, and that I 
may keep this vow to the end.’ — He dropped upon his knees; 
and, by the zeal and energy of his supplication, this young man 
filled my heart with the pure spirit of devotion, and my eyes with 
tears. 

“ My recovery was rapid. I did not see my friend Andersor 
again, until he came to preach at Micklefield, on the followirg 
Sabbath. He passed the evening of that day in my chamber. 1 
again told him, that I had been an unfaithful shepherd. After i 
brief pause, during which, he became exceedingly solemnized, ‘You 
have recovered your strength surprisingly,’ said he, ‘ since I saw 
you last ; and I think we may now safely converse upon this subject, 
if it be your will.’ I assured him it would give me pleasure, to 
open my whole heart to any faithful disciple, and that I knew I 
should gather strength of purpose, by a community of counsel and 
of prayer. — ‘I have been unfaithful to my trust,’ said I, ‘ but I 
have vowed before God, to be so no more. The fixed purpose of 
my soul is to keep this vow ; and I impute my advance in health 
and strength, to that condition of mind, in which I have been, 
ever since I recovered the use of my reason. I can now say, 
that my heart is fixed. If I can get into my pulpit again, I will do 
my duty, which I have left undone, between three and four years. 
I have been somewhat surprised at the inattention of my parishioners 
during my illness. — Yet why should I be surprised at their neglect 
of me, who have so sadly neglected them? Four days have gone 
by, since any one of them came near me, excepting my landlady ; 
then Deacon Anthony called ; and, when I told him frankly my 
opinion of myself, he replied, that I was weak in body and mind, 
and that I should feel very differently, when I came to move about 
and take a little meat and drink. When I told him, however, that 1 
intended to preaeh the whole truth, he interrupted me rather fretfully, 
and observed that it never would answer to preach the whole truth 
in Micklefield ; and that, if my salary were of any importance, I had 
better look before I leaped. I told him with great firmness, that I 
should leap nowhere but into the Lord’s arms, and that I should 
not look to see what man could do unto me. He said, that I should 
only throw the parish into confusion ; and, taking his hat, remarked, 
as he left the room, that he was sorry I had gotten such new-light 
notions in my head.’ — ‘ My friend,’ said Mr. Anderson, ‘ I have 
just now parted with the deacon, who made almost the same obser- 


116 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


vation to me, when describing your state of mind. 1 am rejoiced 
to find you are still resolved to atone for your errors. Though 1 
am younger than you, it is my duty to speak frankly to my brother. 
I cannot doubt the truth of all that you so freely admit. During 
the time that I have been among your people, I have had sufficient 
opportunity to judge of the relation, in which you stand to each 
other. They have all the marks and numbers of a people, whose 
spiritual welfare has been neglected. Observe their conduct in 
regard to their sick, and, as many of them have supposed, their 
dying pastor. They have already negotiated to sui)ply your place ; 
and, when it was thought you could not survive. Deacon Anthony 
inquired of me, on what terms I should be willing to become the 
pastor of Micklefield. I had never preached in your pulpit, at that 
time. He observed, that the people were poor, and could pay but 
little ; yet he thought, as I was quite a young man, I should like 
the chance, and might be willing to work cheap. I told him, that 
I desired to labor in the Lord’s vineyard, but could listen to no 
proposals, under such circumstances ; I agreed, however, to supply 
the pulpit. I preached the first Sabbath, to a most inattentive and 
disorderly congregation. When I came again, I dined at his house ; 
and he observed to me, that it had got about in the parish, that ] 
was opposed to the use of spirit. I replied, that I never made use 
of it myself, and was of opinion, that it was frequently injurious to 
others. He made no further remark. When I was getting into 
my chaise, to leave Micklefield, after the afternoon service, “ Mr. 
Anderson,” said he, “ I don’t want you to suppose I had any 
authority for what I said to you, about settling in our village, in 
case Mr. Meredith should die. It was only a notion of my own ; 
and, if so be he shouldn't get through, it’s like as not we 
mightn’t settle anybody right away.” — I do n6t wish to wound 
your feelings,’ continued Mr. Anderson, as he kindly took my hand, 
‘ but I think it my duty to give you some idea of the manner, in 
which a neglected, misguided people deliver their sentiments of 
their pastor. Last Sabbath, as no provision was made for my 
accommodation elsewhere, I dined at the public house. The tavern 
was literally crammed, during the intermission, and the calls for 
every variety of stimulant, afforded abundant employment, for the 
inn-keeper and his two sons. The congregation was scai(;ely 
dismissed, wffien a sort of trade-wind seemed to waft them all, 
excepting a few, who resided near the meeting-house, directly to 
the tavern. The day was rather warm, and the host and his two 
Bons, instantly throwing off their coats, prepared for a regular stir- 
up. They had tl eir hands full. More than one stepped into the 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


117 


apartment, m which I sat, and tendered a portion of his teddy ; and 
such are the times, on which we have fallen that my refusal, 
though couched in civil terms, was evidently offensive. In the 
afternoon, I preached an unusually solemn discourse, on timely 
repentance ; and its operation was by no means such as I desired. 
I was grieved and surprised, as I occasionally cast my eyes around 
upon the people, to witness the unchristian effect, produced by my 
sermon. It was a warm day, as I have remarked, and several were 
nodding ; others sat, with their heads thrown back upon the rails 
of their pews, and their mouths wude open, in profound slumber. 
One elderly person, in the north-easterly corner pew, snored aloud, 
and the young people had so little restraining grace, that they 
tittered and giggled outright ; and a tall, round-shouldered young 
woman, about eighteen years of age, stuffed her handkerchief into 
her mouth, and ran out of the meeting-house. Those, who kept 
themselves awake, looked excessively angry, and even ready to 
fight ; so unwilling were they to hear of their sinfulness, of the 
necessity of repentance, of the certainty of death, and of the final 
judgment. — I went to the tavern for my horse and chaise ; a con- 
siderable number of persons had arrived there before me. I waited 
in the porch, while my vehicle was getting ready. For a short 
time sullen silence prevailed among the group, that was gathered 
in the adjoining bar-room. The host and his two sons w'ere again 
as busily occupied as ever. Significant glances, shrugs, winks, 
and looks of mock solemnity, were exchanged, whose reference ti 
me was perfectly intelligible. — “ Hot w’^eather out o’ doors.” said 
one. — “ Tarnal hot in the meet’n’us this art’noon,” cried another 
— This produced a peal of laughter. — “ How ’s Meredith a coming 
on?” inquired a third. — “That are’s the man I likes to hear,” 
said a miserable object, evidently grossly intemperate, and w^hom 
I recognized as one of those, whose proffered toddy I had rejected, 

during the intermission. “Meredith’s the right sort of a a 

leetil more sweet’nin, if you please — the right sort of a Christian. 
He gives ye raal, ginivine liberal sarments. He ’s none o’ youi 
hell-fire folks, not he ; and that aan’t all. — Meredith’s a gentleman, 
every inch on him; you won’t catch him a refusing a poor man’s 
toddy, no time o’ day.” — “ Is Meredith a going to get well?” said 
the first speaker, “or will he kick the bucket, eh?” — “I don 
know,” replied the person addressed; “how’s rye now?” — 
“ Pretty fair, the very best kind,” replied the other ; ‘ .eiCus, 
though, if you know anything about it, is he raal sick, or a playing 
the old sojer — don’t want to preach, maybe — eh?” — “No, I 
guess ’t is n’t that,” said the person inquired of; “Mery’s pretty 


118 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


much stunted, I reckon. He was taken down the very day Widow 
Kidder died. They say, he took the old woman’s death proper 
hard.” — “ Well,” cried another, “ ’twasagreat loss to him, there 
isn’t her match for apple toddy in our county. My stars, what 
methegliii the old lady used to make ! Here comes the doctor ; 
he ’ll tell us all about it. — Doctor, how ’s our minister getting on?” 
— “Very cleverly,” said the doctor; “he’ll be out again afore 
long. He has a better constitution than poor Southerly had, and 
can stand spirit a good deal longer, but it affects his head, and 
queerifies him quicker. He ’s a clever fellow, and I shall do my 
best to get him on his legs again.” — “ That ’s you, doctor,” cried 
the poor, feeble wretch, who was angry with me for refusing his 
toddy ; “ gi’ me Bill Meredith for my minister, afore all your canting 
orthodox hypocrites. He ’s the pleasantest and the sociablest min- 
ister ever I see ; I won’t except Southerly. Bless my body, how 
funny he does make town-meeting ! My old woman says she 
does n’t want to hear much about t’other world, when she can get 
him to crack his jokes, and tell cozy stories about this.” ’ 

“Mr. Anderson paused, and looked me steadily in the face. — 
‘ My friend,’ said I, after a brief pause, ‘your remarks cut me to 
the soul ; but I deserve them all, and many more. If the Lord shall 
give me length of days, by his help I will do my duty in this heri- 
tage of thistles ; and, if I cannot succeed in making this moral 
wilderness to blossom like the rose, I will, at least, devote my best 
energies to the removal of those tares and brambles, which I have 
wilfully permitted to accumulate, when I might have resisted their 
increase. I speak not without reflection. Day and night, since 
the recovery of my reason, I have diligently and prayerfully em- 
ployed it in this behalf. I have digested my plans. My settlement 
is for life. I cannot be removed, but for such grounds of offence, as 
are well understood. The popular process for the ejection of a 
clergyman, who renders himself obnoxious, by opposing the vicious 
inclinations of his parishioners, we all understand ; and it has been 
often and successfully employed. Gratuities and facilities, which 
he has hitherto received, are to be withheld. This is a matter of 
course, and I count it as nothing. His salary is to be cut down, and 
the process of starvation is to be conducted against him, as ener- 
geticallj by his parish, as it is by a besieging army against the 
tenants )f a citadel. For this I am prepared; I am willing to be 
poor, that I may make many rich ; I am ready to serve the Lord on 
bread and water. I have been a great sinner, and I fervently desire 
to present upon God’s holy altars, some practical evidence of my 
repentance I ardently long to save one soul alive!’ — My friend 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


119 


clasped my hands, and exclaimed, ‘ Go on, and may God suppcirt you! 
Paul, thus converted, became an advocate of Christ.’ — 1 informed 
my friend, that I intended to preach on the next Sa])bath. He 
suggested my weakness. I told him that God would give me 
strength. After an impressive prayer, Mr. Anderson left me, 
engaging to be present, and assist me in the services of the sanc- 
tuary. 

“ During the previous week, the intelligence had been exten- 
sively circulated, that I should, on that day, resume my ministerial 
duties, and the gathering was unusually large. No tongue can 
describe the intensity of my feelings, when the first stroke of the 
village bell came upon my ear. I was fearful that my friend would 
disappoint me, and, though extremely feehle in the flesh, yet, as it 
was a delightful morning, — it was the last Sabbath in June, — I 
set forward slowly, and on foot. I had not gone far, when I saw 
Mr. Anderson, with his horse and chaise, advancing towards me. 
We rode to the church together. There was an unusual collection 
about the door. The first person who greeted me, and in the most 
cordial manner, after we alighted, was old Gabriel Kelly; — it was 
he whom Mr. Anderson had offended, by refusing his toddy. I 
overheard him saying to a neighbor, as we were entering the 
church, ‘ Well, we sha’n’t hear about no brimstone to-day.’ 

“ The preparatory services were conducted in an admirable man- 
ner by my kind friend. When I rose, the congregation was unu- 
sually solemn and attentive, possibly on account of the emotion, 
which I undoubtedly exhibited, for my heart was full. I had chosen 
for my text a part of the seventh verse of the thirteenth chapter of 
St. Luke. ^ Behold^ these three years I come seeking fruit on this fig~ 
tree, and find none : cut it down ; why cumbereth it the ground?’ I 
applied this passage to myself, and my unfaithful ministration, and 
begged the Lord, in the language of the dresser of the vineyard, to 
let it alone this year also. I plainly told my people, that, as I should 
not spare their sins, I would not spare my own. I set before them 
a strong picture of my own unfaithfulness. I told them, that I had 
been appointed their shepherd, but that I had suffered the wolf to 
come into the fold ; that I had been set apart to preach the gospel, 
which I had not preached ; that I had accepted the office of their 
spiritual guide, to lead them in the way of salvation, instead of 
which I had walked with them in the paths of wickedness. In con 
elusion, with tears in my eyes, I most penitently begged the forgive- 
ness of Heaven, and of ray parishioners. The concluding prayer 
by Mr. Anderson was admjrable ; and, even among my misguided 
people, there were melted hearts and moistened eyes, when he con- 


120 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


eluded, in the words of holy writ, ‘ and if it bear fruity — well ; and 
if not, then, after that, thou shalt cut it downd ” 

“Ah, mynheer,” said the Dutchman, who had seized hold of tho 
clergyman ’s hands, while the tears ran freely down his own cheeks, 
— “ah, mynheer, how much petter you feelt after you had made de 
clean preast, in dat vay !” — “Indeed,” continued the narrator, “ I 
derived a measure of strength and exhilaration from the performance 
of my duty on that occasion, which it falls not to the lot of any 
dram-drinker to enjoy or comprehend. My friend Anderson endeav- 
ored to dissuade me from preaching again upon that day ; but T per- 
sisted, assuring him, that I felt stronger, than when I entered my 
pulpit in the morning. I preached, in the afternoon, from a part of 
the thirty -fourth verse of the twenty-first chapter of St. Luke : 

‘ Take heed to yourselves, lest, at any time, your hearts be overcharged 
with surfeiting and drunkenness d I had read my text, and was in 
the act of repeating it, as usual, when old Gabriel Kelly rose up, 
in evident indignation, and walked out of the meeting-house. This 
was a fortunate occurrence. Had the example been set by any 
one of my less culpable parishioners, it might have been followed 
by others ; but the pioneer, in the present instance, was an incom- 
parable drunkard, and no one appeared willing to follow such a 
notable file-leader as Gabriel Kelly. My sermon was simple in its 
arrangement, practical, and direct. I expressed my opinion very 
plainly, that our village was remarkable for intemperance ; that, 
when I first assumed my pastoral duties, I was a temperate man ; 
that my desire of pleasing man was then paramount to my desire of 
pleasing God ; that a non-conformist was not more offensive to the 
professors of an established religion, in certain countries, than a 
water-drinker, in the midst of an intemperate population ; that a 
clergyman, who would not imitate the dram-drinking habits of his 
people, inflicted a negative- insult upon some one of them, as often 
as he refused the proffered cup ; that my desire of popularity had 
induced me to be sociable with my parishioners, which I readily per- 
ceived was an impracticable matter, without the assistance of strong 
dtink ; that I had, according to my conscientious construction of past 
conduct, sinfully yielded to the temptation, until a craving for that 
beverage, which, in the outset, was by no means agreeable, had 
brought me to the condition of a tippler. I quoted the remark of a 
French writer, who has observed, that, in the misfertunes of our 
very best friends, there is commonly something not altogether dis- 
agreeable to our feelings ; and that even the funeral of a parishioner 
had not been without its fascinations for us all, — for the bottle, on 
Buch occasions, was always full, however empty and impotent the 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


121 


prayer I recited before them the vow which I had made upo'i my 
sick-bed, and, as I had feared, upon my dying pillow, while I had 
been suffering from the effects of those evil habits, which I had con- 
tracted during my unworthy ministration. That vow I renewed 
m the most solemn manner, before them all. — The congregation 
weie grave and attentive, beyond my most sanguine expectations. 
Nothing occurred, after the departure of old Kelly, to mar the 
solemnity of the services, with a single exception. While I was 
pressing earnestly, upon the consideration of my hearers, the uncer- 
tainty of life, the certainty, and the possible suddenness, of death, 
and the horrible idea of being summoned — drunk — before the bar 
of an indignant God, — old Mrs. Troutbeck, the butcher’s widow, 
fainted away in her pew, to the great consternation of the assembly, 
by some of whom it was probably accounted an awful illustration, 
as the old lady’s habits were notoriously bad. She was removed 
into the open air, and speedily recovered. 

“ As I walked down the aisle, after the service, though few of 
my male parishioners remained to greet me, I was received by sev- 
eral of the females, with unusual cordiality ; and some of them, as 
they shook hands with me, could not refrain from shedding tears. 
As I passed through the porch, and bowed kindly, but solemnly, 
to such of my people as still lingered there, they returned my salu- 
tation with unwonted respectfulness of manner, some of them even 
touching their hats, — a thing almost without precedent in the parish 
of Mieklefield. 

“ There was a man in my society, who, from my first arrival in 
Mieklefield, had treated me with marked neglect. His name was 
Kirk Bradish. He was a farmer, and supposed to be the wealthi- 
est man in the village. From this man, and his wife, Elspeth, I had 
never received the slightest token of friendship. I had been fore- 
warned, by one of those volunteers, who may be found amongst 
every people, ready to furnish all descriptions of small knowledge to 
the new minister, that Kirk and his wife* were unsocial people, and 
never treated. I called upon them, once or twice, as a matter of 
duty, — was civilly but coldly received, — and there our intercourse 
seemed likely to terminate. They lost their only child, about two 
years after my ordination, and removed the body full twenty miles, 
to the town in which Mrs. Bradish was born, and there it was 
huried. I was highly offended, when I heard that Kirk Bradish 
had assigned, as a reason for this conduct, that he intended his 
child should have Christian burial, and that there was no such 
thing to be had in Mieklefield. I disbelieved the story at first, but 
it was soon confirmed by several of those witnesses, who are evei 

V(Mi. II. 11 


122 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


the swift messengers of ungrateful tidings. Our greetings were 
accordingly cold and uncompromising, and I set him down as the 
greatest enemy I had in Micklefield. — When I was leaving the 
meeting-house steps, after the services of the afternoon, leaning, for 
support, upon the arm of my friend Anderson, I was agreeably sur- 
prised, by a cordial greeting from Kirk Bradish and his wife. The 
old lady took me by the hand, and exclaimed, ‘ God bless you, Mr. 
Meredith, and give you strength and length of days to do his holy 
will !’ I was much affected by the earnestness of her manner, a:id 
thanked her for her kind wishes. ‘ You are feeble, — you will gc 
home in my chaise, Mr. Meredith!’ said her husband ; ‘ here, — let 
me help you in.’ Kirk’s theory and practice of friendship were so 
closely allied, that I had no time for debate. In a moment I was 
riding, side by side, with the greatest enemy I had in Micklefield: 
Mr. Anderson followed, on foot. We rode on in silence, till we hac 
nearly reached my lodgings. ‘ Mr. Meredith,’ said he, as we were 
drawing up before the door, ‘ you have a hard task before you, but 
I was sure, when I heard you this morning, that you had an un- 
earthly support, and that the grace of God had been shed abroad ir 
your heart.’ — My feelings were too strong for utterance. I had 
supposed, that, in the performance of my vow, I should be com- 
pelled to enter the field against every member of my parish ; — that 
I should commmence my arduous work of reformation without one 
earthly friend. It was otherwise. God had already raised up on 
his side, the most powerful of my parishioners; for, if wealth is a 
powerful instrument, in the hands even of bad men, it may be made 
still more so with those, who are willing to exert the influence it 
affords to its proprietor, on the side of virtue and religion. I made 
no reply, but shook the honest farmer by the hand, which he 
returned with a cordial grasp, that, from such a man, was equivalent 
to a covenant, under seal, acknowledged, and recorded. 

“ I passed an hour with my friend Anderson, who congratulated 
me on this auspicious beginning. When my good landlady re- 
turned, who had dropped in upon a few of her neighbors, after 
meeting, she informed us, that there was a great excitement in the 
parish. The morning discourse might have passed off quietly 
enough, as she supposed ; but the sermon of the afternoon had set 
the congregation in a blaze. Several of the females, she remarked, 
were decidedly in my favor, and wished their husbands could be 
persuaded to leave off spirit, but the men were excessively angry. 
She had gathered the information, that a town meeting would soon 
be called in consequence of my conduct. 

lieibre br^kfast, on the following morning, I received a visit 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


123 


from Deacon Anthony, who desired to see me in private. He 
endeavored to be civil, but was evidently offended by the course I 
had pursued. — ‘ Well, Mr. Meredith,’ said he, ‘ it ’s just as I told 
you ; you ’ve thrown the whole parish into an uproar. I thought 
you understood our people better. Do you think your whole con- 
gregation are going to give up spirit, because it don’t agree with 
youl’ — ‘ Certainly not. Deacon Anthony,’ said I; ‘I truly wish 
they would give it up, not to please me, but to please their Maker, 
who has warned them against drunkenness ; and to benefit them- 
selves, and their families.’ — ‘ Pshaw ! Mr. Meredith, you ’re getting 
to be notional.’ — ‘ I do not think so, deacon,’ I replied ; ‘ you once 
told me, that, for many years, the average of common drunkards in 
Micklefield was about seventy or eighty. This number, I under- 
stand you, remains unimpaired. The drunkards themselves stagger 
into their graves, but, to maintain the average, their places must be 
supplied. Now, since you appear to be perfectly contented with 
this condition of things, permit me to ask you who, among our peo- 
ple, are to supply their places.’ — ‘I’m sure I can’t tell,’ said the 
deacon ; ‘ perhaps you think, that I, myself, may become a drunk- 
ard, Mr. Meredith.’ — ‘ No, sir,’ I replied, ‘ I think you may possi- 
bly escape ; you commenced the use of spirit, as you have told me, 
after your constitution was pretty well confirmed. When I was 
last at your house, you had your son Amos upon your knee. I 
think he is not yet six years old. You held a glass in your hand ; 
you had drunken the liquor, and were giving your child, with a 
spoon, the rummy sugar at the bottom. I never shall forget his 
eagerness, as he ran towards you, when you were mixing your 
dram, indicating how well he understood the process, and how much 
of a little slave he had already become to his appetite for rum and 
sugar. I recollect that, after he had received the whole reliquium, 
he cried for more ; and that, when you gently reprimanded him, he 
exclaimed in a passion, “ I don’t care ; when I grow up. I’ll have 
as much rum and sugar as I want.” — Now, Deacon Anthony, I 
ask you, affectionately, but most solemnly, would it be contrary to 
the common course of things, if little Amos should, at some future 
day, be one of the common drunkards of Micklefield 1 ’ — The dea- 
con’s countenance was immediately convulsed with conflicting emo- 
tions. He was angry, but he was shocked and violently agitated, by 
the picture I had drawn. — ‘ Mr. Meredith,’ said he, ‘ don’t you trouble 
yourself about Amos. But let ’s cut this matter short ; you ’re 
settled here for life ; there ’s no agreement about salary, only vhal 
we ’re to give you a reasonable support according to our ability. Now 
we Be)0m to be getting piobrer every year. This year, in particular, 


124 


THE STAOE-COACH. 


everything has gone behindhand. We had a horrid freshet in the 
spring, and it’ll cost the town a sight o’ money for the uppei 
and lower bridges ; both were carried away, you remember. Then 
crops have been short; besides — ’ ‘Stop, deacon,’ said I, ‘save 
yourself this trouble, and tell me frankly youi wishes.’ — ‘ Why, 
10 be plain, Mr. Meredith, we don’t doubt a man of your talents 
can find a settlement, that will suit him better, and if you had as 
lieve as not, I think the people would be willing to pay up what 
they owe you, and make you some sort of a present, and put an ent 
to the contract.’ — ‘I perfectly understand you. Deacon Anthony 
said I, ‘ and I now tell you, after grave and prayerful considera- 
tion, that I will not leave Micklefield, until I shall have atoned for 
my errors. You speak of the amount they owe me ; they owe rne 
nothing. I have already eaten enough of the bread of unfaithful- 
ness. What they please to give, I will receive. If nothing, I 
am ready to starve, if it be God’s will, and to wear that sackcloth, 
which I have so well deserved.’ — ‘Well, Mr. Meredith,’ said he 
as he rose to go, ‘ then they ’ll call a town-meeting, and settle it their 
own way. ’ — ‘I shall pray God to give them wisdom in all their 
deliberations,’ said I. 

“ Deacon Anthony’s predictions, touching the affairs of Mickle- 
field, were about as likely to be verified, as those of the master of a 
puppet-show, respecting the movements of his little operatives. In 
the early part of the following week the notices were abroad ; and, 
after certain unimportant matters, the main object was set forth, in 
the usual phraseology of the warrant, — to see what measures the 
town will take to fix the minister's salary ; the design of w'hich was 
in fact to fix the minister, if I may be permitted to adopt the expres- 
sion, employed by the lady in her narrative of Parson Pottle. The 
day arrived. It was then very common for clergymen to attend 
these assemblies and take a busy part in town affairs. Upon this 
occasion, I was absent of course. The son of my landlady gave 
us a full account in the evening. He stated, that the parish was 
very much excited by my late course ; and that the affairs of the 
meeting had been conducted in a bitter spirit. One person moved, 
that a committee be appointed to invite the minister to resign. 
Deacon Anthony assured the meeting, that he had sounded Mr. 
Meredith, and that such a course would consume time and produce 
no possible good. Squire Higgle, the attorney, in answer to a 
question from one of the distillers, gave his opinion, that no legal 
ground existed for terminating the contract. It was then moved by 
jne of the distillers, and seconded by an inn-holder, that, consider- 
jag the poverty of the town, it could not afford, during the present 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


126 


year, to pay more for the support of a minister, than one dollar per 
Sabbath, or fifty-two dollars per year. This motion was opposed 
with great zeal, by one person only, who had never spoken in town- 
meeting before. He inquired after the real object of this meeting ; 
and boldly put the question to the distillers, and inn-holders, and deal- 
ers in liquor, if their real object were not to rid the town of a man, 
who was likely to interfere with their traffic. — The speaker was 
called to order, and Deacon Anthony, the moderator, informed : im, 
that it was not in order to call on meinbers of the meeting in hat 
manner ; and that all his questions must be put to the moderator 
‘ Well, then, Mr. Moderator,’ continued the speaker, ‘ I put the ques 
tion to you ; Can you lay your hand upon your heart, and honestly 
say, that you are not desirous of driving your minister out of town, 
because he is likely to lessen the rum profits of your shop!’ — The 
directness and unexpectedness of this appeal, while it deprived the 
deacon of the power of utterance, had a:i obvious effect upon the 
assembly, which effect was increased, by the resolute, uncompro- 
mising manner of the speaker. — Under a specious misnomer, how 
easily we become familiar with the perpetration of sin and folly ! 
the dissipated and the drunken only drown care. — The miser obeys 
the' injunction of holy writ, and provides for his own household . — 
The well-trained members of a political party may be too thoroughly 
accustomed to the exposition of their corrupt motives, to be diverted 
from their course ; but it was not precisely thus in the town-meet- 
ing of Micklefield ; andj while the speaker continued to expose the 
injustice of a measure, designed to crush a clergyman, because he 
had resolved to do his duty, more than one, either from principle or 
shame, seceded in his heart from the main body. When the vote 
was taken, the motion was lost by a very small majority. It was, 
however, voted to fix the salary at one hundred and four dollars, for 
the current year. For several years, I had annually received about 
two hundred and fifty dollars ; and, until the present occasion, as I 
have stated, the salary had not been limited to any particular sum. 
Notice of the new arrangement was sent me by the town-clerk. 
Deacon Anthony was probably ashamed to be the bearer of this 
intelligence himself. The final motion was also opposed with 
great earnestness by the speaker, who had opposed the first. This 
speaker was Kirk Bradish, the man, whom I had once accounted 
the greatest enemy 1 had in Micklefield. 

“ On the next Sabbath morning, the meeting-house was unusually 
full ; many being desirous, without doubt, of witnessing the effect, 
which the late vote had produced upon the minister. I preached from 
2 Corinthians, ix. 6, 7 — He that soweth little shall reap little., and he 

VOL. II. 11* 


126 


rHE STAGE-COACH. 


that soweth flenteously shall reap plenteously. Let every man do 
according as he is disposed in his hearty not grudgingly or of neces- 
sity^ for God loveth a cheerful giver. My text had possibly led not 
a few of my parishioners to expect a sermon, full of complaint, on 
account of my straitened condition. But 1 really felt, that I deserved 
nothing at their hands ; and I told them so, in the heartfelt language 
of simplicity and truth. I thanked them for the allowance they had 
voted me, and stated my desire to live even upon a smaller sum, if 
my present salary should be found burdensome to the parish. I 
compared the luxurious lives of many modern clergymen with the 
necessities and distresses, the watchings and fastings, the stripes and 
imprisonments of the primitive apostles. I told them, that I desired 
nothing so ardently as the salvation of their souls, and that they 
should, one and all, decide as I had done, between God and Mam 
mon. Many of my hearers were deeply affected. Those, who, when 
I commenced, had planted themselves in their seats, with an expres- 
sion of dissatisfaction and even defiance, and who had anticipated a 
sermon full of censure and crimination, hung their heads for shame 
and disappointment. When I passed down the steps, the touching 
of hats became so contagious, that I began to hope for a reformation 
in the manners of Micklefield. There was an old sailor in our par- 
ish, long retired from the sea, who was a moderate drinker. This 
man, Captain Plunket, had an only son, who was exceedingly dear 
to him, but was becoming a fearful drunkard ; and it was thought he 
would one day break the old man’s heart. As I came out of the 
meeting-house. Captain Plunket caught me by the hand, with a con- 
vulsive grasp. — ‘ God bless ye, Mr. Meredith,’ said he. — His lip 
quivered, and the tears came into his eye. — ‘You don’t know what 
you ’ve done for me.’ — ‘ And pray what is it, sirV I inquired. — 
‘ What is it !’ said he ; ‘ why, my son John, that was head on the 
rock, has come right about. That shot you fired last Sunday after- 
noon, took him right betwixt wind and water, and he ’s been plug- 
ging up ever since. Why, sir, he says he ’ll never touch another 
drop, while he lives. He ’s coaxing me to leave off too.’ — ‘ Take 
his advice, my old friend,’ said I, pressing his hand. — ‘ Would yeV 
said he. — ‘ Indeed, I would,’ I replied. — ‘ Well, I ’ll think on ’t,’ 
said the old man, ‘ I will, really.’ — I was not prepared so speedily 
to witness the fruit of my labors, and I failed not to bless God, for 
the increase. 

“ Previously to my conversion, — for such I may justly call it, 1 
was in debt, — though not to a large amount. I was particularly 
anxious to be absolved from this obligation. My chief creditor was 
one of the malecoutents of my parish, and had already begun to 


Tin: STA6E-COACH. 


127 


press me for the amount of his demand. My landlady had offered 
to loan me the amooni. but I was at that time negotiating with he? 
for humbler accommodations, and lower board, and thought proper 
to refuse her oder. I had no other conTertible property than my 
library, which I had taken much pains to collect. It comprised 
about four hundred Tolumes. Of these, I had catalogued about three 
hundred, which I thought I could most easily relinquish ; and. 
having annexed the lowest prices, informed my landlady, that I 
intemkd to sell them separately or together, A few days after, sho 
came to inform me, that she had found a person, who, she thought, 
would like to be a purchaser, and, if I pleased, would show him up. 
I begged her to do so ; and, in a short time, Kirk Bradish entered 
my apartment. — ‘ I ‘m not much of a reading character, Mr, Mere- 
dith,' said he, * but it 's a pity such a fine library should go out of the 
parish, and my good woman 's of a mind that I better buy it.' — I 
showed him the catalogue, and the reduced prices. — ‘ Well,' said 
he, ‘ please to make a bill of sale, and I 'll pay you for it.' — He 
counted out the naoney, and put the bill of sale in his pocket-book. 
‘When will you send for the books. Mr. Bradish T said I. — ‘1 
can't rightly say,' he replied, ‘ but I 'll let you know the day before, 
if that will answer.' — ‘ Perfectly weU,' said I. — month after 
the transfer, I reminded him, that he had not sent for his books, and 
have done so repeatedly since, but he always replies, ‘ I 'm to let 
you know a day before, and you said that would answer.' 

“ Mv efibrts, to obtain more humble accommodations of my land- 
ladv, were in vain. She put me off with various excuses, and thus 
compelled me to retain the best apartment in her house. A few 
days before mv quarter bill became due. I told her, that the neces- 
arv of adapting my expenses to my limited means would compel me 
to leave her house, unless she would permit me to occupy an upper 
chamber. The old lady smiled, and bade me not take so much 
thousht for the morrow. I had reserved enough to pay for my 
board : and. when quarter day arrived. I put down the money, and, 
as usual, requested a receipt. ‘ You will find it.', said she ‘ on your 
table : it has been already paid.' — I was unable to get any explana- 
tion from her : and, wh^ I expressed my conviction, that it was 
the work of Kirk Bradish, she simply placed her finger on her lips. 
When I taxed him with this act of beneficence, however, he denied 
all aeencv. in such a marmer, as left me no doubt of his sincerity. 
In thL way. mv board continued to be paid by some unknown bene- 
fiictor, for six years. I have never been able to unravel the mvstery, 
in aav other way, than by the correspondence of events. — It was 
never paid in manner, after I committed the remains of old 


.28 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


Piptain Pliinket to the grave. — The town-meeting produced a very 
dillerenl result from that, which its projectors designed. It increased 
the number of my friends, and taught me, that, even with a refer- 
ence to the comforts of the present world, it is easier to serve the 
Lord, than Baal, if we seek first the kingdom of God and his right- 
eousness. 

“ Although we had not then such means, as are derived from the 
principle of association, yet the village of Micklefield presented no 
contemptible example of local reform. Clergymen are eminently 
the fuglars or exemplars of their parishioners, and accordingly they 
lie under a fearful responsibility. I continued, by example and by 
ju’ccept, to operate upon the feelings and upon the reason of my 
flock ; and my success was vastly beyond my most sanguine antici- 
pations. Though temperance societies and temperance pledges 
were, at that time, unknown, the mischievous effects and the utter 
inutility of every intoxicating liquor as a beverage, were weil under- 
stood, by those, who considered the subject with attention. Sen- 
suality and selfishness inculcated a different and a more popular 
doctrine. It was almost futile to war against a people, whose very 
habits so obviously tended to elevate the creature, and depress the 
Creator, — with such weapons alone, as the spiritual armory affords. 
At first, and before the pervading spirit of temperance itself had 
prepared the way, for the higher and holier influence of the gospel, 
the success of my efforts seemed mainly to depend upon a correct 
demonstration of such temporal evil, as springs manifestly from 
intemperance. Loss of money, and land, and comfort, and respecta- 
bility, and health, and domestic happiness, and friends, and reason, 
and life itself, — such considerations were simple and intelligible, 
and readily traced to intemperance as their source. I found it of 
much advantage, even in my sermons, to introduce the opinions of 
those medical writers, who delivered their sentiments long before 
the first conception of such a thing as a temperance society ; and 
upon whose pages may be found the great leading features of total 
abstinence. I often said to my people, ‘ Many imagine hard labor 
cannot be supported without drinking strong liijuors. This is a very 
erroneous notion. Men, loho never taste strong liquors, are not only 
able to endure more fatigue, but also live much longer than those, who 
use them daily.'* 

“ Long before the great temperance reformation arose in our land, 
Micklefield enjoyed a reformation of its own. So manifest were its 
advantages, that, although, for the two first years, my parishioners 


* Buchan, p. 85, Coffin’s Ed. 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


129 


inflicted tlie petty municipal indignity upon their pastor of electing 
him hogreeve of the village, the attempt to repeat it, for the third 
time, was resisted by a large majority, who were already sensible 
of their increasing happiness. In the course of seven years, the 
fires of three distilleries were extinguished. At the present day, no 
license is granted in this village ; and it would bp no easy matter to 
find a town, in the same commonwealth, more remarkable for iU 
industry and sobriety than the village of Micklefield. My good old 
friend, Deacon Anthony, who is yet living, at a very advanced age, 
has thanked me a hundred times for my resolution, in remaining 
with my parishioners. Years have gone by, since he abandoned his 
cheerless occupation, and became, in fact, that, which he had long 
been, only by profession, a sincere Christian deacon. A short 
account of his conversion shall close my narrative of the parish of 
Micklefield. — About four years after my severe illness, I received 
a message from old Gabriel Kelly, requesting me to visit him, as fie 
was thought to be dying. I made my way with all possible expe- 
dition to his' miserable dwelling. I reached the door almost at the 
same time with Deacon Anthony, who appeared somewhat embar- 
rassed by the meeting. — ‘ Kelly is dying,’ said I. — ‘ 0, no,’ said 
he, ‘ he '11 live a good many years yet, I guess. I ’ve come here on 
a little business, and, if you ’re going in, I may as well stop on my 
return.’ — ‘There must be some mistake in this matter. Deacon 
Anthony,’ said I ; ‘ if Kelly is not dying, there is no reason why 1 
should remain, and I will immediately return.’ — ‘Pshaw, Mr. 
Meredith, he’s no more dying than you are, — he ’s only drunk,’ 
cried the deacon, opening the door. — We entered together. Ga- 
briel Kelly was stretched upon his straw-bed. Dr. Snuffler was 
sitting upon a broken chair. Gabriel’s wife, manifestly in liquor, 
endeavored, upon our entrance, to draw forw^ard a chest, that we 
might be seated. Their son, Gershom, a young man, about nine- 
teen years of age, was lying, apparently dead drunk, upon the floor. 
The only member of this wretched family, who seemed to be capa- 
ble of self-government, was a daughter, about fifteen years old. 
She had the reputation of being perfectly correct in her habits ; and, 
though misery appeared to he written in broad, deep lines, upon her 
features, their expression was amiable, and, under other circum- 
stances, she wmuld have been accounted pretty. — ‘ How is he, 
doctor!’ said I. — - ‘ He can’t live through the day,’ replied the 
doctor ; ‘ they ’ve been giving the old man nim, though I forbid it, 
and it will carry him off a little sooner.’ — ‘ He did n’t drink but two 
— two qua — quarts,’ said the woman. — ‘Two quarts!’ cried the 
doctor. — ‘No,’ she replied, ‘we got about two qua — quarts.’ — 


130 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘how much did he drink 1’ — ‘He — her 
drinkt all that wasn’t left in the — the — that’s what he drinkt.’ 

“ ‘ Gabriel,’ said the doctor, putting his hand on the dying man’s 
shoulder, ‘ Mr. Meredith has come to see you, with Deacon An- 
thony.’ — He opened ^lis eyes, and called for cold water. The 
doctor said he might take just what he pleased. He drank a little, 
and in a feeble voice addressed the deacon nearly as follows : — ‘So, 
you’ve come to see the old drunkard diel’ — ‘ No, Gabriel,’ said 
the deacon ; ‘ I came because you sent for me.’ — ‘ I did n’t,’ said 
he. — ‘ Your son Gershom,’ said the deacon, ‘ came to my shop this 
morning, and said if I would let you have two quarts of rum, and 
come down myself this forenoon, you ’d settle our account, and that 
you could n’t go out.’ — ‘ He and the old woman plotted it, I s’pose, 
cried Gabriel, ‘ and they ’re drunk, no doubt ; — settle the account, 
with a vengeance ! What an account you ’ve got to settle in t’other 
world, deacon ! I ’m a-going afore ye, for one of your vouchers. 
Settle the account, to be sure ! Ask the minister, that ’s setting on 
the chest with ye, what he thinks you ’ll look like, when you ’re 
called up for a set — settlement, yourself.’ — ‘Kelly,’ said the 
deacon, ‘you’re light-headed.’ — ‘Well, — maybe so, but I a’n’t 
light-hearted, any how. — Settle the account! You made me a 
drunkard, — and the old woman there, — and Gershom, — and now 
I want you to make a solemn promise to a dying man.’ — ‘ You ’re 
so abusive, Kelly, that you have no right to ask anything of me.’ — 
‘ Well, well, deacon, do promise a dying man ; it won’t touch ye in 
your substance, — so ye need n’t be scared, deacon. Now, if you ’ll 
promise, I ’ll tell ye something for your advantage.’ — ‘ Well,’ said 
the deacon, hoping to shift the topic, ‘ I ’ll promise, if the thing is n’t 
unreasonable.* — ‘That’s a good deacon,’ cried Gabriel. ‘You 
see Alice there, my daughter; — now promise me you’ll never 
make her a drunkard.’ — The old man would not desist, though he 
was evidently .growing weaker, until the deacon had made him a 
solemn promise, that he would never furnish Alice Kelly with a 
drop of intoxicating liquor. — ‘ And now, Deacon Anthony,’ said he, 
‘ I feel myself a-going, and I must be short, but I ’ll keep my word, 
and tell you something for your advantage. It’ll be for }our ad- 
vantage, deacon, to know jest what folks thinks on ye, — and I’ll 
tell ye. Last new year’s night, more than twenty on us was 
together down to Kendall’s tavern, and we was all unanimous, that 
Deacon Anthony had made more drunkards in Micklefield than any 
other five rum-sellers beside.’ — At this moment, old Kelly was 
seized with a fit of coughing, which put an end to the deacon’s 
persecution. — I asked the poor old sinner, if I should pray for him; 


THS STAGE-COACH. 


131 


he replied, that it was of no use, but he thought it might be well 
for me to pray for Deacon Anthony. I inquired why he had sent 
for me. He said he wished me to be a witness of the deacon’s 
promise, that he would not make Alice a drunkard. — The doctor 
observed that his pulse was failing. — ‘ How long can I live?’ said 
old Gabriel. — ‘Not long,’ said the doctor. — ‘ I forgive ye, deacon,* 
said he, ‘ and hope God will, but I should die something easier, 1 
think, if you was out of the house.’ — The deacon had never un- 
dergone such a trial before. He went out in silence. The effect 
of this interview was greater than I could have expected. Aoout a 
fortnight after old Kelly’s death, which occurred on the evening of 
that day. Dr. Snuffler informed me, that he was in the deacon’s 
shop, when a customer called to have his jug filled with New Eng- 
land rum, and the deacon informed him that he had done selling 
spirit. From that time, he became a truly respectable deacon. He 
more than redeemed his pledge to Gabriel Kelly ; for he received 
Alice into his own family, where she remained, until she married a 
worthy mechanic. But it is time for me to offer you my apology 
for this trespass upon your patience.” — “ Veil, mynheer,” said the 
Dutchman, “ dat ish vat I calls a vary goot shtory ; and who ish to 
tell de nex von? Here,” continued he, addressing the daughter of 
the Eme^-ald Isle, “ vat have you got to zay apout dish temperance 
pisness, eh, voman?” 


PART SIXTH. 

“ Och, daar sir,” cried the poor Irish woman, “ it ’s no moor nor a 
poor widdy, that I am, a lone wuman, sir, lift dissolute, and this 
same has happunt to me foor times already. It ’s not for the like 
o’ me to prate afoor quality.” — “ Veil, veil,” cried the Dutchman, 
“ naver moind apout dat ; let us know vat ish your idees of de tem- 
perance pisness.” — “ Lard bliss your honor,” she replied, “it’s 
timp’rance, and nathing else in the warld, has done the job for my- 
self and my poor daar husbands, — all foor on em, — and I, as I 
toult ye, a lone widdy into the bargain.” Here she covered her 
face with her hands, and uttered a pioblematical sound, between a 
scream and a howl. — After a considerable pause, during which the 
Dutchman had listened to the widow’s ululations, with evident 
impatience, — “ Dere ’s netting,” said he, with a comical expres- 
sion, “ will shtop grief, ven he preak loose, and make a pig noise, 
ike Hollands ; did you ever try ’em?” — At first we were a little 


132 


THE STAGE-COACH 


shocked by the Dutchman’s plain inquiry He had evidently seen 
something of human nature. He had given abundant evidence, 
during the day, of an affectionate heart, but he Avas apparently 
unwilling to squander its sympathies upon a worthless object. — 
“ I zay, goot voman, did you ever try de Hollands!” continued he, 
repeating the question. — “ Och, my sowl, your honor, niver nor 
any kind o’ shpirit; it ’s not mysilf, that would do that same ; I niver 
tuk a dhrap in my hull life, only Jist, as the good old praast, Father 
O’Callaghan, used to say, in silf-defince, to kaap the wind aff the 
stomach, or the like o’ that. At wakes and birrils, ye know, sir, 
it ’s all right for the dacency o’ the thing. But it 's mysilf, that 
ha3 had enough o’ timperance in my dee, ye may well say that. 
There was my first husband — rest his sowl — John Dory it was, 
he was a raal timperance man. In my oult father’s cabin, there 
was the crathur a plinty, and mony ’s the brukken head that ’s fell 
to my share, for interfaaring atwixt the oult folks, whin they kim 
to licks or the like o’ that ower their whiskey. So I was detarmint 
niver to be the wife o’ ony other nor a timperance mon. John 
Dory was forward enough in his way o’ coorting, for one o’ my 
country, and I soon got a chance to smill o’ the lad’s brith, and 
swaater it was nor ony rose, to be sure. There was not the laast 
parfume o’ the crathur. So I made up my mind, that John Dory 
was the man for Polly M'Gee. I pit tlve plain quistion to him, this 
a way, ‘ John Dory,’ said I, ‘ it’s not mysilf, that ’ll sit down for 
life wid a whiskey-drinker.’ ‘ Daar Polly,’ said he, ‘ my name ’s 
not John Dory, if I ’m the like o’ that. I despise the maan shtuff, 
and ye ’ll niver find me a touching a dhrap o’ it, no time o’ dee.’ So 
John and me was married, and he kipt his promise to the litter. But, 
for all that, there niver was a woman in County Cark, that got sich 
lirrible baatings fro’ her drunken husband, as Mrs. Dory, that was 
rny own self, ye know. And, for all that, he niver touched a dhrap 
o’ whiskey. It was nathing in the warld but brandy and Hollands. 
John was kilt outright, in a riglar shelala fight in the city o’ Cark ; 
and while we was a raising the keena at the poor men’s wake, the 
very night afore his birril, Pether O'Keefe, his third cousin by the 
mother's side, squaazed my hand and breathed so hard, that ’twas 
( lain enough, he was after coorting mysilf jist thin. ‘ Pether,’ said 
], in a whisper, ‘be aisy ; how can ye be so unsaasonable ? ’ — 
Och ye ’re a jewel,’ said he, in a low tone, and thin he 'd raise his 
voice, to the top o’ his lungs, and join in the keerta for the poor 
departed mon, his own third cousin, as I toult ye. 

“ In about a waak Pether kim to coort mysilf riglar. I toult him 
that I was not ower covetous o’ being married again. ‘ Ye ’re 


t 


THE STAGE-COACH. 133 

maaning- to shpake indirictly,’ said he, ‘o’ my cousin Dory’s not 
beinnr so perlite as he might ’a been. He baat ye, I’m toult, — it 
was the ondacent thing, to be sure ; but he ’s anunder boord now, 
and we ’ll be after saying pace to his sowl. Ye ’ll be safe enough, 

Polly, wid Pether O’Keefe, if ye ’ll be a little consinting to be 
the wife o’ a jontleman like mysilf. It ’s not my father’s son that 
wull be sucking the mountain dew, hinny, from marning to night. 
Whiskc}" ’s a maan thing, ony how ; Jamaica is haating ; so is 
brandy ; and gin is pertikler dishagraable., I niver tak a dhrap o’ 

’em, Polly, and, by the powers, it ’s not mysilf that ever wull.’ 

“ Haar, ye see, was a raal timperance mon, none o’ your half- 
way spalpeens, that are nather one thing nor the tother. Afoor 
two months we was married, Pether and myself, and a right pace- 
able time we had o’ it, for four and twenty hours. The very next 
night it was, that Pether O'Keefe kim home as drunk as a baast. 

‘ Och, Pether,’ said I, ‘I’m faaring it ’s yoursilf, that has been 
midling wid the crathur.’ — ‘ Hout, ye jade,’ said he, ‘ away wid 
your blarney, or, by the powers o’ mud, I ’ll be after knocking your 
taath claan down into your bread-basket, ony how.’ — ‘Och, Pether, t 

Pether,’ said I, ‘is it yoursilf that wull be using me that a way? 

Ye ’ve been up to the dishtillery.’ — ‘ It ’s a lie, an plase ye,’ cried 
Pether ; ‘ I ’ve been down to Bill Keegan’s wid half a dozen moor 
tasting a few quarts o’ broon shtout.’ — ‘ Daar mon,’ said I, ‘ ye ’ve 
promised me to have nathing to do wid the crathur ; now jist tak a 
bit o’ paper, and gie it to me, in black and white.’ — ‘Black and 
white it is?’ cried Pether, as he shprang up in a rage; ‘by the 
powers ye shall have it in black and blue,’ said he, and he gave me 
a click in the eye, that sent me head ower haals upon the floor. I 
was soon Pether’s widdy, for he died in a fit, about siven waaks 
after we was married. 

“ I thought I had had enough o’ matrimony and timperance to 
boot ; so I resolved to be my own woman for the rist o’ my dees. 

But how it happunt I niver was able to tell, in a yaar or something 
liss it was, after Pether O’Keefe was pit under boord, I was ower- 
persuaded by Phe'im McCarthy, a swaat young mon it was. Afoor 
we was married, 1 toult Phelim o’ all the throubles myself had had, 
wid John Dory and Pether O’Keefe, and how I was detarmint niver 
to be married agin to ony mon, what tuk shpirit or the like o’ that. 

‘ Daar Polly,’ said he, ‘ ye ’ve found your own mon, and its Phelim 
McCarthy, at vour sarvice. It ’s mysilf it is, that ’<5 signed the 
plidge o’ the timperance society.’ — ‘Sowl o’ me,’ s'. d I, ‘ how 1 
wish I ’d jist nut wid ye, Phelim, afoor. A mimber • the timper- 
tuce society are !’ — ‘it’s aven so, Polly,’ said h« ‘ and ve ’ll 

HM. T) l‘J 


134 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


not be after finding more jonteel and raasonable people, to be sure. 

I lost no time in being married to Phelim, but I repinted at my 
lasure, indaad I did. He was a bigger drunkard nor John nor 
Pether. He laid in three berrils o’ oult sour cider in the beginning, 
and he kipt himsilf drunk dee and night. Och, sirs, whin John 
Dory, my first husband, daar mon, — whin he was drunk wid the 
raal crathur, he bate me, to be sure, but after a little bating fro’ 
mysilf, wid the poker or some sich convanient machine, he ’d lay 
aisy, he would, till the nixt dee. It wasn’t jist that same wid 
Pether. The broon shtout and the portlier was moor slaapier for 
his nathur, it was; and though, if I didn’t claar out o’ his way, 
whin he was raal befuggled, he ’d be sure to gie me a click in the 
chaps, or a teest o’ his great showther of mutton fist in the ribs, yet 
if I kipt a look-out, whin he was taking his short tacks and bating 
into the door-way, I could na fail to manage him nately wid the oult 
mop, ye see. The handle was jist o’ the length to kaap him afF, 
and the oult rags, whin I pit ’em in his face, saamed to confuse him 
pretty considerably entirely. It was an aisy thing it was, to pish 
Pether ower on the bid or maybe the floor, and ’t was aisier for him 
thin to get aslaap, than to clamber up on to his ligs agin. Och, 
sirs, these here was a moor paceable sort o’ a way o’ baaing drunk 
nor Phelim McCarthy’s on his oult cider. He was iver a jower- 
ing, and niver so raal drunk as to be aisy. He kipt his ligs he did, 
and had the fraa use o’ his arms, whin he was the drunkest. He 
made nathing at all o’ drubbing me, wid a hull gallon o’ cider 
aboord. I tried to kaap the oult woolf in order, one dee, wid the 
mop, jist as T did Pether so ‘aisy. He whisked it all away in a jiffy. 
‘ I ’ll gie ye a ride,’ said he, ‘ ye Kilkenny divil's bird,’ — an onda- 
cent reflection that same upon my barthplace, — so he saazed me 
by the hair, and dragged me a half quarter o’ a mile, and I crying 
for marcy the hull way. Whiniver I toult him he was drunk, as I 
did pretty riglar ivery dee ; ‘ It ’s yourself that ’s an ignorant baast,’ 
he would say; ‘how can Phelim McCarthy be drunk, whin it’s 
known for a universal thing that he ’s a mimber o’ the timperance 
society, and niver touches nor tastes a dhrap o’ the raal fiery cra- 
thur !’ We was married aboot two years, whin Phelim died o’ the 
colic. He said, wid his last brith, it was the cider, that had gi’n 
him his gruel ; and that he did n’t belaave there was a doctor in the 
hull warld, no moor nor a potecary, that could take the twist out o’ 
his bowels jist thin. So ye see, sirs, I was lift alone in the warld, 
a poor widdy, and a lone wuman entirely. But I ’m fear'd ye ’ll 
be thinking I had the luck o’ being coorted, for it wasn’t moor 
nor a waak arter Phelim’s birril, that Patrick McClannigan made 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


135 


me an offer of his own silf. He was five yaars younger nor me ; 
maybe there did n’t saam thai differ, for I was wonderfully supported 
under my throubles, to be sure. I was more detarmint nor iver 
niver to be nobody’s wife any moor. Patrick was not the liss 
detarmint himsilf in his own way. »It was not the aisiest thing in 
the warld to resist the lad that he was. I lit him see jist how I had 
been desaaved and chated ; and I toult him I ’d not be the wife o’ 
the man alive, who would take a dhrap o’ onything, that would be 
the maans o’ gitting him drunk. ‘ Polly,’ said he, ' I ’ll not 
desaave ye, by the powers. I ’ll confiss the hull truth to ye now. 
I ’se taken a chaaring dhrap now and thin, to be sure, but it ’s 
mysilf that ’ll do a’most ony thing to plase the like o’ you. Now, 
an it ’s your wull an plisure, we caii fix it this a way : haar ’s a 
bmperance society, that goes the hull as they say, none o’ your 
nalf-w'ay societies it is. Ivery mimber o’ it is boond fast, sowl and 
buddy, not to take a dhrap o’ any fuddlesome liquor, ye see, saving 
as a midjcine. Now it’s Patrick McClannigau, that’ll sigjj the 
plidgo o’ tnat same society.' — ‘ Ho it, JVtrick,’ said 1, ‘ uud I ’ll 
be Mrs. McClannigan right away.’ — He shprang upon hi* raat and 
wint off like a shut. In liss nor an hour he kim back wid a certi- 
ficate, that he had plidged himsilf to abstain from ivery intoxicating 
liquor saving as a midicine. We was married, and I ’m tilling ye 
the truth whin I say, that he niver had a wall day after that. He 
drinkt whiskey like a sponge, he did, and iver as a midicine. Whin 
he got drunk, as he did at Billy O’Finnigan’s birril, I toult him he 
had brukken his plidge. — ‘No, Polly daar,’ said he, ‘isn’t it 
midicine for the sowl o’ meP But he is did and gane, poor lad, 
and I am lift a dissolute widdy once moor. I ’ve no great opinion 
o’ timperance, ye may belaave.” 

The Irish widow, by her extraordinary narrative, had occasioned 
more smiles than tears. “Veil, mine goot voman,” exclaimed the 
old Dutchman, at the termination of her story, “you have sailed 
upon voii vinegar voyage, mitout coming to de haven where you 
vould pe. Vat dish voman tell,” continued he, addressing the com- 
pany,* “ prove dat de only vay ish to let de shtuff alone, call ’em vat 
you please. Now, mynheer,” looking at his watch, and turning to 
the elderly gentleman, “ dere vill pe moor dan von hour pefore ve 

arrive at Vill you please to give us a leetil more of 

your talk apout de temperance pisnessl Maype, you can give us a 
ehtory yourself.” 


136 


THE STAGE-COACH 


I 


PART SEVEJNTH. 

“ The subject does not appear to be exhausted,” said the elderly 
gentleman, “ and I cannot refuse to comply with your request, since 
every other individual has freely contributed to the common stock. 

“ Nothing appears to me less extraordinary, than the commence- 
ment of the temperance reform in the warfare against ardent spirit 
alone. Though used, more or less, by all orders in society, it was 
emphatically the beverage of the humbler classes. — It was the poor 
man’s brief consolation and permanent curse. — We are more prone 
to correct the vices and follies of our neighbors than our own. To 
such, among the higher classes, as were disposed to be philanthro- 
pists, it was a graceful and an acceptable office, to carry the banners 
of moral reform among the poor. Yet, if education, rank, and 
riches serve to aggravate our sins, the wine drunkenness of the rich 
was more enormous than the rum drunkenness of the poor. The 
beam, therefore, was not unfrequently found in the rich man’s eye. 
There was, at the commencement of the reformation, as I think, not 
less intemperance, proportionally, in the higher than in the lower 
walks of life. If this opinion should be thought erroneous by some, 
let it be remembered, that the rich are few in number, and the poor 
an overwhelming majority. The poor were not likely to commence 
a reformation for the rich. Accordingly, the higher orders com- 
menced it for the poor. Rum, brandy, gin, and whiskey were 
denounced. Wines and cordials were spared. The drunkenness 
forbidden in holy writ, as every one knows, was drunkenness on 
fermented liquors, for distillation was then unknown. With him, 
who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity, it can be no cause for 
qualification ; it cannot vary the character of the offence the tithe of 
a hair, that drunkenness is produced by one intoxicating beverage, 
rather than by another. 

“ The appetite for intoxicating liquor has been coeval with its 
existence. Drunkenness has existed upon the earth, as a personal, 
domestic, and national curse, since the means of drunkenness were 
contrived. Man, for all the purposes of drunkenness, is precisely 
such as he was in the wine-making days of Noah ; and, while simi- 
lar means of drunkenness remain, similar effects will result from 
their employment. This appears to me to be plain common sense. 
No v, if ardent spirit should be abandoned, mankind would fall back 
upon one fermented liquor after another, as a retreating army retires 
successively upon its strong-holds. I perceive no reason, therefore, 
why wine, if it should ever become the beverage of the people as of 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


137 


old, should not work for us the very same miserable results, which 
it wrought for ‘ all the inhabitants of Jerusalem,’’ in the days of 
Jeremiah. In the narrative, which this poor woman has given us 
of her matrimonial experiences, you perceive, that drunkenness may 
be produced by more than one intoxicating liquor. 

“When the natural appetite for water becomes vitiated, by the 
use of any inebriating liquor, the desire for the accustomed stimulus 
will induce the beer-drinker and the wine-drinker to prefer the more 
fiery beverages to that of God’s appointment, if wine and beer are 
not to be obtained. Nothing, in my opinion, would be gained by 
mankind, if the highest achievement of the reformation were he 
substitution of one intoxicating liquor for another, and such, I have 
no doubt, would be the result, if its advocates should aim at the 
abolition of ardent spirits alone, permitting mankind to employ all 
other inebriating liquors at discretion. 

“ In the city in which I reside, there was a young man of uncom- 
mon promise, who was well known to me from his earliest years. 
His character and bearing were singularly lofty. Meanness, in all 
its forms, was sure to awaken his indignation and disgust. Among 
the vices of mankind, there were few, which he seemed to detest so 
thoroughly, as drunkenness. His abhorrence of a drunkard was 
perfectly Castilian. This young gentleman, whose name was Ar- 
thur Middleton, had, in his own family, the most melancholy exam- 
ples of intemperance. His two elder brothers had long continued 
in the habit of almost daily intoxication. They were both married, 
and each was surrounded by a group of unhappy little ones, destined, 
apparently, to that inheritance of ignorance, poverty, and rags, 
which so commonly falls to the lot of a drunkard’s progeny. The 
contrast, between these unhappy men and their younger brother, 
was singularly striking. It was precisely all that difierence, which 
lies between vicious poverty and honorable thrift. 

“ After a collegiate education and the regular term of professional 
study, Arthur Middleton had commenced the practice of the law, 
with no ordinary prospect of success. His brothers had not enjoyed 
the advantages of a liberal education. One of them had been 
engaged in trade ; and the other, following the plough, after the 
example of a worthy father, had been a respectable farmer, until ho 
became an idler and a drunkard. The superior advantages of edu- 
cation and professional success were not suffered, by Arthur Middle- 
ton, to constitute a barrier of pride and selfishness, between himself 
and his unhappy brothers. Upon more than one occasion, I have 
been deeply affected, as I have listened to his elevated sentiments, 
when speaking of these misguided relatives. ‘ My education,’ he 

VOL. II. 12 * 


138 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


would often say, ‘ has placed me, I trust, far beyond the reach of . 
this vulgar liability. God has prospered me in my affairs. I have 
acquired some property, some reputation, perhaps. Show me the 
way, in which I can employ all that God has given me, more accep- 
tably in his sight, than by flying to the rescue of my unhappy 
brothers. They are the children of my father and of my mother. 
They were the companions — the playmates of my childhood. I 
can never forget a parent’s dying injunction, as he took a hand of us 
each, within his own, gave us his parting benediction, and bade i« 
love one another. They are sadly intemperate, it is true, — but I 
will be the last to despair of theii reformation.’ 

“ For the accomplishment of this important object, and under a 
strong consciousness of duty, he suffered no expedient tc remain 
unemployed. Suffice it to say, that he was completely successful. 
The painful relation, in which he stood to these unhappy men, had 
very naturally drawn him into closer connection with temperance 
men and temperance measures. He became an active and efficient 
member, and. Anally, an officer of a temperance society. The 
applu^ation of such means, as were thus brought within his reach, 
enablc-d him to exert that happy influence upon his two brothers, 
which finally produced their perfect reformation. He became, under 
God, the minister of happiness to these two miserable families, and 
enabled them to gather once again in peace around their firesides.” 

The elderly gentleman paused for a moment, and, with evident 
emotion, continued as follows : — “ Arthur Middleton had long been 
attached to a lovely girl, a distant connection of his own. She was 
very young, and his admirable qualities of head and heart seemed 
not, for a time, to be as carefully weighed by her, as they might 
have been, in the balance of some graver spinster. It was my for- 
tune to be the first, who related in her hearing the circumstances, to 
which I have just now referred. She appeared to listen with un- 
usual interest. I was entirely willing, that she should have in her 
possession the most ample materials, for judging correctly of this 
excellent young man. I exhibited before her the wretched, fallen 
state of these miserable men, — the sufferings of their wives, — the 
worse than fatherless condition of their children, — the entire ab- 
sence of every gleam of happiness from their firesides, — the pros- 
pect before them of committing, sooner or later, to the drunkard’s 
grave, their husbands, — their fathers, — once the objects of their 
love and reverence. I contrasted this sickening picture with another, 
and bade her look on that. I set before her imagination the samo 
unhappy men, sacrificing their idols upon the altars of domestic 
repose — shaking off the bandages of a moral death, — taking once 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


139 


mrre into their hands the ‘implements of honest industry, and no 
iong-er converting- its avails into the means of misery , but into bread, 
that their little ones might eat and live. I bade her contemplate the 
beggar's rags exchanged for comfortable raiment, — the drunkard’s 
cheerless hearth for the happy cottager's fireside. ‘ This change,’ 
said I, ‘ under the merciful providence of God, is entirely attributable 
to the zeal, and energy, and brotherly love, of our young friend.’ 
For the first time, as I believe, that sentiment was 'awakened in the 
heart of this amiable girl, v/hich ultimately ripened into the most 
de mted affection. As I concluded my simple narrative, and while 
she was brushing the tear from her eye, the door opened, and Ar- 
thur Middleton entered the apartment. — Notliing has ever appeared 
more lovely, since the fall of man, than certain impulses of the 
youthful heart, — as yet unsullied by the world's alloy, — chaste, 
and unsuspecting, and all untrammelled by those ceremonious usages 
and laws, which belong, of right, to social intercourse, and which it 
is by no means my purpose to condemn. This young gentleman 
no sooner entered the apartment, than Margaret Alston rose from 
her chair, and walked earnestly towards him. ‘ I am delighted to 
see you, Mr. Middleton,’ said she, giving him her hand. Arthur 
Middleton was evidently embarrassed by this unexpected salutation, 
from one, of whose coldness or indifference he had hitherto believed 
himself entitled to complain ; and Margaret herself, abashed by the 
consciousness of her own precipitation, somewhat awkwardly re- 
sumed her seat and her needle- work. ‘ We were speaking, Mr. 
Middleton,’ said I, with the intention of removing the unpleasant 
sensation as speedily as possible, — ‘ we were speaking of the happy 
result of your efforts for the reformation of your two brothers.’ — 
‘ The change in their condition is truly wonderful,’ he replied. ‘ I 
yesterday returned from a visit to Geoffrey, my oldest brother. I 
passed the Sabbath with his family, and, I can truly aver, the hap- 
piest Sabbath of my life. He has five girls and one boy, — and six 
lovelier children I never beheld. I had not been half an hour in the 
cottage, before Tim, their little boy, who is about seven years old, 
took me down into the field, and showed me a spot underneath an 
old walnut, where the green sward appeared to have been broken. 
“ Daddy’s jug is buried there,” said the child; “ he broke it on that 
stone, when he left off drinking, and the next day he said he could n’t 
bear to see the pieces ; so he buried ’em. Daddy prays every night 
out loud now, that God would help him to keep his pledge and drink 
no more rum. He asks mother to pray for him too. Daddy lets 
me ride jack-horse on his knee, just as he used to. I aan’t a mite 
afeard on him now. He don’t kick the children into the fire, when 


140 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


they ’re a-parching- corn, as he did once. Uncle John ’s left off 
too. He was here last week. He and father used to quarrel, but 
they ’ve made all up. When he used to come here, daddy always 
got out the jug, and mother used to say we should have trouble 
afore long ; and so she got us all out o’ the way over to Deacon 
Jllaney’s. But when uncle John come last week, and brought aunt 
Sukey, they did n’t have any such thing ; and, afore uncle John went 
away, daddy did n’t get out any jug, but he got out mother’s Bible, 
and read a chapter, and then he prayed, and uncle John prayed, 
that God would keep ’em both from drinking any more rum ; and 
mother and aunt Sukey cried like all possessed.” — When Sabbath 
morning came,’ continued Mr. Middleton, ‘ my brother Geoflrey’s 
wife expressed some little uneasiness on account of little Tim’s 
threadbare apparel. “ Never mind, wife,” said Geoffrey, “ God 
looks at the heart ; — let ’s pray to be able to mend that ; — I don’t 
believe the Lord will mind Tim’s old clothes ; and, afore another 
Sabbath, maybe we'll do better.” ’ 

“We were deeply affected,” continued the elderly gentleman, 
“ with Arthur Middleton’s account. From the period of this inter- 
view, the relation between this young man and the object of his 
affections became of a closer character. Ere long, she announced 
to her parents, that Mr. Middleton had made her proposals of 
marriage. Their approbation was cheerfully bestowed, and the 
young lady received a full moiety of all those felicitations, which 
commonly abound upon such occasions as these. Such were the 
talents, character, and prospects, of Arthur Middleton, that Marga- 
ret Alston was universally accounted a most fortunate girl. — They 
were married. — They were happy. — In little more than a twelve- 
month, she gave birth to a lovely girl. — His professional prospects 
were unclouded. — At this period of his life, he gave a willing ear 
to the suggestions of his political associates and friends, who endeav- 
ored to persuade him, that his talents and accomplishments were not 
altogether the private property of their possessor. Accordingly, he 
entered upon the career of public life. With those, whose suffrages 
contributed to place him among the legislators of his native com- 
monwealth, the friends of the temperance reform were delighted to 
cooperate; and they had no occasion to regret his election. His 
efforts to correct the evils of the license system, so far as it is sus- 
ceptible of legislative amendment, were indefatigable. Mr. Middle- 
ton’s manner of life could not, wdth perfect propriety, be styled 
extravagant. He was exceedingly hospitable, and a liberal enter- 
tainer. His income at no time exceeded the limit of his expendi- 
ture. He was never able to say that he had laid up a farthing, at 
the close of any year. 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


141 


“ In addition to his professional and political engag-ements, the 
temperance cause levied no ordinary tax upon his time and toil. 
He had occasionally lectured upon several of its interesting topics 
with the happiest effect ; and he suffered no occasion to pass unim- 
proved, for the reformation of intemperate men. 

“ Notwithstanding his natural temperament, which was uncom- 
monly ardent, Mr. Middleton was remarkable for his entire self-pos- 
session at Ihe bar. I never recollect, but on one occasion, to have 
seen him manifestly nettled, and so thoroughly confused, that he 
was utteily unable to reply. Three young men, students in the 
university, were indicted for an aggravated assault and battery upon 
a farmer, somewhat advanced in years. I presided at the trial of 
this indictment. Mr. Middleton was counsel for the young men, 
and endeavored to prove, that the old man was drunk, and the 
aggressor. It was clearly shown that he had drunk five glasses of 
rum, during the day, upon which the assault and battery occurred, 
and that he was in the habit of drinking ardent spirit. This testi- 
mony was rebutted, by the evidence of an experienced dram-seller, 
well qualified to judge, from his knowledge of the old man’s habits. 
The dram-seller testified, that he had sold him rum almost daily, for 
twenty years; — and that he could drink three times that number 
of drams in a day, without being drunk ; and that he was remark- 
able in the parish for the strength of his head. Other witnesses cor- 
roborated this testimony ; and it was proved that the old farmer had 
made some shrewd bargains, a very short time before the rencounter. 
On the other hand, it was shown to the entire satisfaction of the 
jury, that the young men, one and all, were unquestionably drunk ; 
— that they were members — in good standing — of the Porcellian 
Club ; — that they had just come forth, at the time of the assault, 
from a Porcellian dinner; — and that they had drunken no stronger 
intoxicating liquor than wine. At that time, the principles of the 
temperance reformation were less perfectly understood, than they 
are at the present day. Mr. Middleton, though strenuously op- 
posed to the use of ardent spirit, was in the daily practice of taking 
his wine, and putting his bottle to his neighbor ! In the then exist- 
ing condition of the temperance reform, a proposal to abstain from 
wine, and all other fermented liquors, would have been rejected as 
thoroughly absurd, by an overwhelming majority of all those, who 
had set their names to the temperance pledge. It would have been 
thought impossible to get along with the common courtesies of 
social intercourse, without this wonderful promoter of ‘ the feast of 
reason and the flow of sould Mr. Middleton evinced considerable 
irritation, when he perceived, that the old rum-drinking farmer was 


142 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


likely to escape the imputation of drunkenness, on the present occa* 
sion ; while, at the same time, the charge was effectually fastened upon 
his gentlemanly clients, whose beverage was wine. In the course of 
his defence, he became extremely sharp upon the old farmer; referred 
to his notorious habits ; and spoke, with unsparing severity, of the 
venders and partakers of ardent spirit. When the prosecuting offi- 
cer had closed for the government, the old farmer rose, and requested 
permission to say a few words, which I readily granted. — ‘ Please 
your honor,’ said the old man, ‘ ’Squire Middleton don’t think worse 
of ardent spirits than I do. I know ‘they ’ve done a great deal of 
mischief in the world, and perhaps very little good, if any. I can 
go into the graveyard in our village, and put my foot agin the head- 
stone of more than a hundred, who, in the course of nature, might 
have lived as long as I have, but whom rum has carried to the 
drunkard’s grave. ’Squire Middleton isn’t more in favor of the 
temperance cause than I am. I ’ve three sons and two daughters. 
I made all five on ’em sign the pledge. I advise everybody else 
to do the same thing. Your honor wonders, maybe, why I don't 
sign it myself. Please your honor, I ’se got a dreadful strong head. 
I would n’t have anybody justify himself by my example ; for I 
never met the man that could drink as I can, without feeling the 
effects on ’t. ’Squire Middleton’s a great temperance man, please 
your honor, and he says we all ought to leave off, if it 's only for the 
sake of the example to other folks. Your honor sees as how the 
young blades was all drunk, though ’t was only on wine ; and that 
I wasn’t drunk, though I never denied that I’d taken a few 
glasses of rum and water that day. Now, ’Squire Middleton won’t 
deny, I s’ pose, that rum won’t make some folks drunk, and that wine 
will. Please your honor, I think well enough of the ’squire, and am 
sorry he seems to think so poorly of me. It ’ll come proper hard 
for me to give up spirit. I ’ve used it more than fifty years. How- 
, somever, I ’ll make the ’squire an offer here afore the court ; — I ’ll 
give up rum, and brandy, and gin, and the like of them are, if the 
’squire’ll give up wine, and beer, and cider, and sich as they. — • 
Come, ’Squire Middleton, what d’ye say to that?’ The court- 
room resounded with peals of laughter, which the officers found it 
no easy matter to suppress. 

It is somewhat difficult,’ sard IMr. Middleton, as we met in the 
evening, ‘ to furnish a sufficient reply, upon the spur of the moment, 
to such an unexpected proposal as that, which old Barnicoat ten- 
dered to me in court to-day.’ — ‘ The easiest thing in the wor.d,’ 
I replied. — ‘And how so?’ he inquired. — ‘Close with the old 
oaan’s proposition at once,’ I rejoined. It was very evident that ho 


'I ME STAGE -COACH. 143 

*114 not relish my suggestion, and the conversation soon found its 
wvy into some other channel. 

“Not long after this occurrence, the friends of the temperance 
cpv’ise, perceiving, as they supposed, the insufficiency of the pledge 
of abstinence from ardent spirits alone, began to agitate the question 
of abstinence from all intoxicating drinks. Meetings vi^ere fre- 
quently called, for the purpose of discussing this interesting topic. 
The society, of which Mr. Middleton had long been a distinguished 
member, adjourned its meetings for six successive evenings. Mr. 
Middleton himself argued against the extension of the pledge, with 
more than all his usual zeal and ingenuity. It was nevertheless 
decided, by an overwhelming majority, to assume higher ground, and 
to adopt the pledge of abstinence from all intoxicating drinks. Mr. 
Middleton, with two or three others, who refused to sign the new 
pledge, were necessarily excommunicated, or rather ceased to be 
members of the temperance society. He joined in the common cry, 
that the cause of temperance was at an end, and that the ultraism of 
its misguided and over-zealous friends had brought destruction upon 
one of the most noble of all human undertakings. From this mo- 
ment, he never spoke of the cause, nor of its advocates, without an 
expression of disgust and even bitterness. 

“ It is not good for man to be alone. No one is more sensible 
of this profitable truth, than a dissenter from those opinions, which 
are acquiring an extensive popularity. His peculiar sentiments 
appear too valuable, in his own estimation, for his exclusive enjoy- 
ment ; and he is forever uneasy, unless he is employed as a propa- 
gandist. Truth may be enjoyed by its happy proprietor, in perfect 
silence. Heresy commonly affords little pleasure, unless some wil 
ling ear is at hand, to receive our doubts and relieve us of our the 
ories. The Christian is happy in close communion with his God 
The infidel is ever restless, unless engaged in the promulgation of 
his unbelief. The wine-drinking members of old-fashioned temper- 
ance societies, are commonly, more or less, conscious of their incon- 
sistency. There are many degrees between the very first impres- 
sion of that inconsistency, vague and undefined as it occasionally is, 
and that full conviction, which speedily converts the midway tem- 
.oerance man into a tee-totaller. Private reflection, upon this inter- 
isting topic, is frequently preferable to public discussion. In the 
tatter course, sides are to be taken, and opinions maintained. Mr. 
Middleton had long been esteemed a social and convivial man. 
During the discussion, to which I have referred, it was not to be 
•'.xpected, that either party should forbear the exhibition of any 
•fgiiment, which could be legitimately brought to bear upon the 


^44 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


question. Frequent allusion was made to those selfish and pereor.fll 
motives, which governed many, who were unwilling to extend cho 
pledge. Their attachment for the bottle became a subject of corsid 
erable mirth. It was true, upon this, as it has been elsevvhera 
upon many similar occasions, that almost every individual, who 
opposed the extension of the temperance pledge, was in the habit of 
using fermented liquor, with a greater or less degree of moderation. 
No one gave stronger evidence of personal irritation than Mr. Mid- 
dleton. I expressed my surprise to an old friend, as we were leav- 
ing the assembly one evening. He shrugged his shoulders, and 
observed, that ’Squire Middleton drank more wine than was good 
for him. I was greatly shocked by this remark ; for I had never 
suspected before, that he was an intemperate man. 

“It was very evident to me, that Mr. Middleton had lost his 
interest in the temperance cause. He levied the most open and 
unrelenting warfare against the advocates of total abstinence, and 
devoted a large amount of his leisure moments to an exposition of 
their madness and folly. 

“ My position, in regard to this young gentleman and his wife, 
gave me sufficient authority for directing my attention more closely 
to his habits of life. In connection with the remark of my old 
friend, I recollected, that, during my recent visits at Mr. Middle- 
ton’s house, I had noticed some indications of anxiety on the coun- 
tenance of his wife. They did not appear so perfectly happy in 
each other’s society of late, and I began to charge myself with stu- 
pidity, for not having been more forcibly impressed by these appear- 
ances. The next morning, I called at his house : it was shortly 
after breakfast, and he had already gone abroad. Margaret was 
walking the room with her little girl. I came rather abruptly into 
the apartment ; and, as I entered, I heard the little girl exclaim, 
‘ Don’t cry, dear mother.’ She was in tears, and turned towards 
the window to conceal them. I took her hand, and affectionately 
inquired after the cause of her sorrow. After some hesitation she 
admitted, that her husband’s affairs were somewhat embarrassed. 
‘And is this the only occasion of your tears?’ I inquired. ‘ I cannot 
bear,’ she replied, ‘ to see Mr. Middleton so terribly excited, as he 
often is, by these temperance discussions.’ — ‘And pray,’ said I, ‘is 
he ever excited from any other cause?’ — She gazed at me intently 
for an instant, and burst into tears. The position, in which I stood 
to this lady, as I have already stated, warranted the freedom of my 
inquiry, and the fulness of her reply. She frankly told me, at last, 
that she was alarmed for the consequences of his habit of indul- 
gence ; and that, although he never tasted ardent spirit in any fomq, 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


145 


his free use of wine and other fermented liquors had inateriallf 
affected his temper and lessened her happiness. She informed me^ 
that her tears, which I had noticed upon my first arrival, had been 
occasioned by a sharp reprimand from her husband, while dissuad- 
ing him from giving a dinner-party, which he could not afford. She 
idded that it was settled, nevertheless, against her counsel, and 
would take place the ensuing week. She said, that her husband 
intended to invite me. and I promised to accept the invitation. I 
offered such counsel, as I thought adapted to her situation, and 
took my leave. 

“ Without the slightest committal of Mr. Middleton’s reputation, 
1 gave a fair occasion to others to speak freely of his habits in my 
hearing. I soon discovered, to my sorrow, that he had, for some 
time, been accounted an intemperate man. As a zealous member of 
the temperance society, he had been placed aloof from all suspicion ; 
and the whole common sense of the framers of the old-fashioned 
temperance pledge seemed completely to negative the idea of intem- 
perance, -on wine. I found, that a very common impression pre- 
vailed of his incompetency, as a business man, in the after-part of the 
day ; and that his particular case was very generally cited by those, 
who desired to prove, by example, the utter insufficiency of the 
pledge of abstinence from ardent spirits alone. 

“ I felt it to be my duty to have a full and frank conversation 
with this young man. I was revolving the subject in my thoughts, 
and devising the most suitable plan for its execution, when he called 
to invite me to dine with the Rev. Dr. Mockturtle, our new clergy- 
man, and a few friends, on the following day. I was half inclined 
to refuse, or to accept on condition that wine should not be intro- 
duced. On further reflection, however, I decided to accept the 
invitation, and seek a more suitable opportunity for the expression 
of my opinions. The impressions, which I had recently gathered 
of his intemperate habit, induced me to regard his appearance and 
manner more carefully ; and I noticed in his countenance the marks 
and numbers of dissipation, which I had never observed before. 

“ When I entered Mr. Middleton’s parlor, upon the following 
day. I found the guests already assembled, with the exception of our 
new clergyman, for whom the entertainment was made. The host 
and hostess were, from some cause, not perfectly at ease. An illy- 
concealed anxiety was too plainly visible upon the countenance of 
Mrs. Middleton, which it was painful to observe. After the lapse 
of half an hour, the door opened, and the long-expected guest made 
his entree. The Rev. Paul Mockturtle was about five and forty 
years of age, unusually short, round, and rubicund. He was evi- 

VOL. II. 13 


146 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


dently, if I may so express myself, a man for both worlds, having 
no intention of relaxing his hold of the present, until he had secured 
a firm grasp upon a better. I never looked upon a face of clay in 
which the muscles were so wonderfully pliable ; nor have I ever 
seen an individual, whose tones of voice and general manner were 
so instantaneously variable — valuable qualifications, beyond all 
doubt, for an individual, who is called, at one moment, to mourn 
with those who mourn, and the very next, to rejoice with those who 
rejoice. 

“We were soon ushered into the dining-parlor. The blessing 
was craved most reverentially, by the Rev. Paul Mockturtle ; and, 
from the position of his expanded hands and the curvature of his 
body, it seemed to be especially bestowed on a capacious oyster-pie, 
upon which he subsequently made a lion’s repast, whetting his appe- 
tite with an occasional glass of wine, and clearing his fauces with 
one or two tumblers of London porter. Nothing could be done in a 
more workmanlike style. Short ejaculations and brief responses 
now and then interrupted the work of consumption. — ‘ Poor Mrs. 
Davidson has lost her husband, . doctor,’ said Deacon Eldridge. 

‘ God have mercy upon her,’ cried the doctor ; ‘ a few more oysters, 
Mrs. Middleton, if you please. Dear me, this is a world of sorrow 
— you have a French cook, madam, no doubt.’ 

“ I had already seen and heard enough to excite my contempt for 
our new clergyman. He was elected, during my absence in a 
neighboring state, and I felt some little satisfaction in the conscious- 
ness of my irresponsibility for such a selection. 

“ The cloth was removed, and the wine began to circulate. After 
some general conversation, a remark from Deacon Eldridge turned 
the attention of the company to the subject of temperance. I was not 
sorry for this, as I was desirous of affording our new clergyman an 
opportunity of exhibiting his sentiments. ‘ Old Anthony Jones, the 
undertaker, is dead,’ said Deacon Eldridge. — ‘A wretched drunk- 
ard,’ said Mr. Middleton — ‘ we should have reformed that poor fel- 
low, if — fill your glass, doctor, — if it had not been for the suicidal 
conduct of our temperance society — perhaps you prefer the Sherry, 
Deacon Eldridge.’ — ‘ Old Anthony,’ said Mr. Snakeroot, the apoth- 
ecary ‘ was eternally drunk with beer ; he did n’t take much ardent 
spirit ’ — ‘ Could n’t be, sir,’ cried Mr. Middleton ; ‘ impossible — 
John, some clean glasses and the old Monteiro, — no man ever 
became a drunkard, a real drunkard, on beer, Mr. Snakeroot.’ — 
‘ Anthony Jones was a terrible drunkard, Mr. Middleton,’ replied the 
druggist. — ‘ No doubt of that, sir ; but he drank rum, sir, rum, sir, 
ram rum, New England rum ; depend upon it as certainly as your 


. / 


THE STAGE-COACJL 147 

name is Snakeroot, There, Doctor Mockturtle, what d’ye say to 
that?’ — ‘ Nectar, Mr. Middleton, nectar, indeed it is; but your Sh — 
Sherry is incomparably fine ; did you imp — ort it youiself?’ — ‘ Yes, 
sir — no, sir, not exactly the Sherry — John, open the Champagne, 

— fill the doctor’s glass, — Joly's brand, my dear doctor.’ — ‘ Excel- 
lent, most excellent, my very dear friend,’ cried the doctor, who was 
palpably the worse for liquor. — ‘ Dr. Mockturtle,’ cried Mr. Hoogs, 
one of the most influential members of our parish, ‘ I should like to 
have your opinion of the temperance society.’ — ‘ Sir,’ replied the 
doctor, drawing himself up, and holding fast upon the arms of his 
chair, and turning upon Hoogs the only eye which was entirely open, 
‘it’s done up, sir,- — dephlogisticated, — extinct, — and defunct, 
body and spirit. It ’s all over with it now, sir. It ’s ultraism, sir. 

— Isn’t this a good creature of God 1 that’s my argument, sir, — 
the glass is empty, Mr. Mid — Middlington, a little more, if you are 
agreeable, sir. My health is delicate, sir, and I follow the direction 
of the apostle, and take a little for my — my stomach ache and often 
infirmities. My learned friend. Dr. Tweedles, does the same thing, 
he is an in — in valetudinarian, and requires it. He is in the habit 
of taking a little, but he does not take it habitually. The fanatics 
have set no bounds to their audacity. Dr. Tweedles tells me, sir, 
that a member of his society had the impudence to adulterate the 
communion wine, — good, old, strong-bodied Madeira, — by putting 
spring water into it. What an unhallowed innovation!’ — ‘You 
don’t say so, doctor!’ cried Deacon Eldridge, holding up his hands 
and rolling his eyes aloft with an expression of horror. — ‘Yes, 
sir,’ replied the doctor, ‘ I do say so, — it ’s nothing less than sac- 
rilege, sir. — For my own part — I’ll take a little more of the 
Champagne, if you please, my dear sir — I was going to observe — 
to remark that a — bless me, it’s gone out of my head — O — ah 

— yes, yes, I’ve got it — I was going to say everything done by 
our blessed Redeemer was sacred. His example is enough for me. 

I make it a point to take wine at weddings always, and it never ' 
tastes so good, because I do it in honor of my Redeemer. Dr. 
Tweedles does the same thing.’ — ‘I always do,’ said Deacon 
Eldridge. — ‘ So do I,’ said Mr. Hoogs. Six or eight of the com- 
pany affirmed, that they were in the same habit. — ‘ I 11 tell you 
what it is,’ cried Mr. Middleton, who, though he had been silent, 
had not been idle — ‘ I ’ll tell you what it is,' said he, with an exces- 
sively flushed and excited countenance ; ‘ it ’s all a humbug — I ’m 
sick of it, and by — I beg your pardon, doctor.’ — ‘ O, my dear 
friend,’ said the doctor in a sleepy voice, ‘ no sort of occasion, 1 
assure you.’ — ‘ Doctor Mockturtle,’ continued Mr. Middleton, ‘ our 


148 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


notions correspond exactly, and I ’m rejoiced that you ’ve — fill your 
glass — that you’ve come among us. Was there ever such an 
infernal piece of non — nonsense as the notion, that men of character 
and standing can get drunk on good old Madeira!’ — ‘ Never, my 
dear friend,’ replied the doctor, ‘ never, never. Why diminish our 
com — comforts, why take away our innocent rec — rec — recrea- 
tions?’ — ‘Sure enough,’ cried two or three of the company. 

‘ These temperance folks are certainly carrying matters to ex- 
tremes,’ said Deacon Eldridge ; ‘ pray, judge,’ continued the dea- 
con, turning to me, ‘ don’t you think they ’re going too fast and too 
far?’ — I had continued almost entirely silent during this entertain- 
ment, which had afforded anything but pleasure to me. Mrs, Mid- 
dleton had retired, as soon as the common courtesy of the table 
would permit, and I had remained to ascertain, if possible, from the 
carriage of her husband, the natur.e and extent of his intemperate 
habit. I was perfectly convinced from all that I saw, in connection 
witli all that I had heard, that his love for intoxicating liquor was 
the sin, that most easily beset him; and that, unless immediately 
vanquished, it would inevitably bring ruin upon himself, and misery 
upon his household. I perceived, that my presence was embarrass- 
ing to Mr. Middleton, and I was upon the point of withdrawing, 
when called out by the inquiry of Deacon Eldridge. On the whole, 
I was not disposed to regret so fair an occasion for expressing those 
opinions, which my ’position, as a guest, would have prevented me 
from obtruding upon such a company. ‘ Deacon Eldridge,’ said I, 
in reply to his interrogatory, ‘ 1 foresee no great danger from the 
rapid progress of the reformation. Excesses, if such there are, 
will probably correct themselves. You well know my opinions, 
deacon; they are those of a cold-water man.’ — These last words 
seemed to awaken Dr. Mockturtle from the lethargy, which had 
been evidently getting the better of his energies for some time past. 

, .It had never occurred to him, in all probability, that any diversity 
of opinion, upon the subject before us, existed among ihe guests 
who were present ; and he had been too seriously occupied with his 
own operations, to pay any very particular attention to the proceed- 
ings of his neighbors. He was evidently surprised, that any person 
should have the hardihood to avow himself a cold-water man before 
an assembly, in which every other individual had furnished such 
abundant evidence, that he was not. He turned toward me with 
perfect astonishment. I cannot say, that he lifted the light of his 
countenance upon me, for every spark of intelligence was utterly 
extinguished. — ‘I am a cold-water man, deacon, as you well 
know,’ continued I. ‘ Water is a safe and a salutary beverage ; we 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


149 


have sufficient reason to believe, that -wine is neither. I will avail 
of this occasion to bear my testimony, for all that it is worth, 
agrainst some wild opinions, as I deem them, which I have heard 
to-day. It is easier, I conceive, to follow our blessed Redeemer’s 
example in some things than in others ; it is a pleasanter employ- 
ment, perhaps, to drink wine, at a wedding, in commemoration of 
his example at Cana, than to bear a splinter of the cross, in testi- 
mony of our gratitude for all he suffered for mankind on Calvary. 
Jesus Christ never commanded that we should drink wine upon such 
convivial occasions as these ; yet he certainly forbade surfeiting and 
drunkenness. If drunkenness had not existed, he would not have 
forbidden it. Fermented liquors were then the only beverages, by 
which drunkenness could be produced. It is therefore absurd to 
contend, that wine, even when unenforced with brandy, is insuffi- 
cient for the production of drunkenness. It is not less irrational to 
assert, that the addition of water is an adulteration of communion 
wine,* however pure that wine may be ; and this remark is still 
more just, if the communion wine be such as is commonly employed 
and enforced with brandy, for such wine was unknown when Jesus 
Christ was upon the earth.’ Having made these remarks, I took 
my leave, and returned home wdth many sad forebodings, in rela- 
tion to the future prospects of poor Middleton and his unhappy 
family. 

“ It had been my intention to seek the first fitting opportunity, 
for a solemn conversation with Mr. Middleton, on the subject of his 
habit. Impressions, produced at the late interview, tended to dis- 
suade me from the execution of this design. I had ascertained, that 
both his brothers had become members of the new society, and 
signed the pledge of abstinence from all intoxicating drinks. At 
a temperance convention, recently assembled in a neighboring 
county, Geoffrey Middleton, the elder brother, who was a man of 
strong natural understanding, had distinguished himself, by making, 
in his plain way, one of the most argumentative and affecting 
addresses, that I have ever heard, in favor of the comprehensive 
pledge. It occurred to me, that my object would be most likely to 
be accomplished, through the instrumentality of this elder brother. 
About a week from this time, I had occasion to pass through the 
village, in w'hich he resided, and called at his farm-house. I stated 
my fears, in relation to his brother, without any reserve ; and sug- 
gested, that, possibly, exhortation and argument, from the lips of 
a brother, might avail, which would fall ineffectually from those 


troL. II. 


13 * 


* See Appendix. 


150 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


of any other man. — ‘Do go, Geofixey,’ said his wife; ‘we owe 
everything to Arthur.’ — ‘ I know it,’ said Geoffrey, as his lip quiv- 
ered and the tear came into his eye. ‘ I ’ll go, judge,’ continued 
he, ‘ if you ’ll go along with me and bear me out. Arthur ’s a 
tonguey man, judge, and I should feel badly, if I could n’t make the 
whole truth plain for the want of words.’ We made an arrange- 
ment to visit Arthur Middleton together, on the following Monday. 
Before we parted, I apprized his brother Geoffrey of all the circum- 
stances in Arthur’s situation, which had come to my knowledge, 

— his pecuniary embarrassment, — the exteat of his habit, — the 
undesirable reputation, which it had already acquired for him , to 
all which he listened with evident surprise and sorrow. 

“ At the appointed hour, on the following Monday, Geoffrey 
Middleton arrived at my door, in company with his brother John. 
‘ I ’ve brought brother John with me, judge,’ said he, as he entered 
my study ; ‘ I ’ve been thinking he might put in a word now and 
then. John is about as much indebted to Arthur, as lum myself, 
and has as much interest in this matter as I have ; and, as he was 
entirely willing to go with us, I thought I would bring him over, 
and take your advice about it.’ — I knew the character of John 
Middleton very thoroughly. He was a man of good common sense, 
but decidedly inferior to Geofl^rey in point of talent. The natural 
impulses of his heart were more impetuous ; he was not much older 
than Arthur ; and, having been more closely associated with him 
as the companion of his earlier years, he cherished towards him 
very naturally a much warmer attachment. Both Geoffrey and 
John, subsequently to their reformation, had expressed, in my hear 
ing, their grateful sense of their younger brother’s efforts in bringing 
it about. Upon such occasions, Geoffrey was always perfectly 
collected, and gave a clear account of his former state, contrasting 
it, in the happiest manner, with his present condition ; and bestow- 
, ing the full measure of grateful praise upon his brother Arthur. 
John’s heart was always too full for such a calm, collected narrative ; 
and, before he had relieved himself of one half of all he had to say, 
his voice choked, his eyes filled with tears, and all he could utter, 
as he held my hand in his own convulsive grasp, was, ‘ O, judge, 

— I can’t talk about it. ’ 

“ I told John, that I was persuaded his presence would be bene- 
ficial. I informed them both of such facts, as had recently come to 
my knowledge. At the close of the entertainment, of which I have 
given a description, the Rev. Paul Mockturtle was put to bed at 
Mr. Middleton’s, being utterly unable to seek his own lodgings 
Mr. Middleton himself was unable to reach his own chamber with 


THE CTAGE-COACH. 


151 


oat assistance, or to come abroad during the two succeeding days. 
1 also ascertained, that his pecuniary affairs were in a much worse 
condition, than I had ever imagined. 

“ After some little discussion, in regard to our plan of operation, 
we proceeded to Mr. Middleton’s residence.' The domestic informed 
us at the door, that Mr. Middleton was particularly engaged. I 
requested to see his wife, who came down to us in great agitation, 
with the intelligence that their furniture had been attached that 
morning, by the sheriff, who was then with her husband in the 
parlor. ‘ What shall be done?’ inquired Geoffrey Middleton. — ‘ I 
guess we can pay off the debt between us, Geoffrey,’ said John. — 
I desired the sheriff to be told, that a gentleman wished to see him 
at the door. He immediately came to us. I looked at the writ ; it 
was at the suit of J. J. Jaffier, a French wine-merchant ; the action 
was brought to recover the value of a quarter-cask of Sherry, and 
six hampers of Champagne. We gave our personal responsibility 
to the officer, who released the furniture, and took his leave. We 
entered the parlor with Mrs. Middleton, where we found her hus- 
band, walking the apartment with hasty strides. He had evidently 
expected the officer’s return, and was greatly surprised by our 
appearance, and painfully embarrassed by our visit, at such an 
unlucky moment. ‘Where is the sheriff?’ he inquired of Mrs, 
Middleton, in an under tone, — ‘He is gone,’ she replied; ‘our 
good friends here — ’ — ‘ I thought so,’ he quickly rejoined, as the 
tears filled his eyes ; ‘ this is very kind of you.’ — ‘ Pshaw, Arthur,’ 
cried John, as he clapped him on the shoulder, ‘what is such a 
trifle, compared with what you have done for us?’ — ‘But how 
strange ! — What conducted you all here at this particular junc- 
ture?’ — ‘ We have come, my young' friend,’ said I, ‘ as I devoutly 
trust, the ministers of good to you and yours.’ — ‘ We have come,’ 
said Geoffrey Middleton, ‘ to make a small return for all your ines- 
timable kindness to us and ours.’ — ‘ There is some mystery in all 
this, which I cannot comprehend,’ said he. — ‘ Brother Arthur,’ said 
John, ‘ we promised, upon your earnest request, to give up ardent 
spirit ; we have done so, and we shall never cease to bless God, who 
has enabled us to keep our promise thus far. Now, we want you to 
make us a promise in return, that ycu will give up fermented liquors 
and all other intoxicating drinks.’ — ‘Pray tell me,’ said he, with no 
little evidence of excitement in his voice and manner, ‘ if you have 
all come to me upon this formal embassy?’ — ‘We have, brother 
Arthur,’ replied Geoffrey, with perfect composure. — ‘ We have con- 
sulted together, and have resolved, that it was our duty to do so, and 
that your future happiness, and that of your family, require of you 


152 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


the entire abandonment of intoxicating liquors.’ — ‘ Gracious Hea- 
ven!’ he exclaimed, rising suddenly from his chair, and walking 
across the apartment, ‘ has it come to this ! Am I in any danger oi 
becoming an intemperate man? Perhaps,’ added he with a sneer 
* you have made up your minds, that I shall die a drunkard. — 
Possibly, according to the ultra constructions of modern fanatics, 
you consider me a drunkard already ! Your motives are entitled to 
my respect, but you must forgive me for expressing my aston- 
ishment at such an application from you, Geoffrey, or from you, 
brother John.’ — ‘Arthur,’ said Geoffrey, after a short pause, ‘ who, 
of all mankind, can address you with greater propriety upon this 
deeply interesting subject than ourselves? We have been drunk- 
ards ; and, had you not come, like an angel of mercy, to the rescue, 
we should have been drunkards still ; our wives would still have 
continued the trembling slaves of two drunken, ungovernable 
tyrants ; our children would still have hid in holes and corners at 
our coming. — But it is not so ; your efforts have been blessed ; we 
have abandoned our evil habits ; our wives and our little ones are 
happy. For all this, we owe a debt of gratitude somewhere ; and, 
under Providence, we owe it to you.’ — ‘Really, brother Geoffrey,’ 
cried Arthur Middleton, with an air of affected vivacity, ‘ you have 
learned to play the orator. ’ — ‘I have learned to seek the truth,’ 
replied the elder brother, ‘ without any fear, but the fear of God ; 
and, if it lies where it is said to lie, at the bottom of the well, I ’m 
not a going to flatter myself that I have found it, when I am only 
half way there.’ — ‘Well, Geoffrey,’ said Arthur, ‘ when I drink 
ardent spirit, it will be very just and right for you to lecture, and 
for me to listen ; but, as it is, I give you my word, there is no pos- 
sible danger of that result.’ — ‘ Arthur,’ rejoined the other, ‘ expe- 
rience is better than theory. When 1 was twelve years old, the 
very year you was born, I told our father he lied, for which I 
merited a severe flogging, and I got my deserts with interest. I 
have asked myself, a thousand times, how I came to say such an 
outrageous thing to our good old father, and my conscience has 
alwa}s given me a ready answer: I was drunk, — drunk with fer 
mented drink, — drunk with cider. Neighbor Faulkner's cider-mill 
had been at work for several days, and I had drunk, till I lost all 
respect for myself and for everybody else. I have often thought 
of father’s words, when he took me alone, the next day. “ Cider,” 
said he, “ is the first letter in the drunkard’s alphabet, and raw rum 
is the last ; if you go on as you ’ve begun, you ’ll soon learn from 
A to Z ; and, with the assistance of your school-master, the devil, 
you ’ll be able, in a short time, to spell out destruction.” Now, 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


153 


/f there is anything fanatical ir the views of those, who are foi 
total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors at the present day, our 
father’s notions were just as fanatical, long before you or I ever 
beard of a temperance society.’ 

'“Geoffrey’s argument was unanswerable. Arthur said not a 
word, but appeared to be meditating a reply. The countenance of 
Mrs. Middleton, anxious and pale, — save that circumscribed flush, 
which tells of anything but health and many years, — was lighted 
up with an unwonted smile, as she listened to these words of truth 
and soberness, and looked hopefully upon the features of her hus- 
band for some testimony of their happy effect. 

“ ‘ I don’t pretend to know as many things as you do, brother 
Arthur,’ said John, ‘ but I believe, as truly as I believe anything, that 
I should never have been a drunkard, if I had n’t begun with beer. 
Ardent spirit used to be very disagreeable to me, till I was past 
nineteen. When I lived with Mr. Paradise, the brewer, the boys 
had plenty of beer ; and, when I left him, and went where beer waa 
not set before us, I found my mouth was quite out of taste for water. 
Anything tasted better than water ; — a little rum, or gin, or brandy, 
gave it a very agreeable flavor ; — and so I went on incieasing the 
quantity, till I became what I was.’ 

“ ‘ Let me ask one question,’ said Arthur Middleton, with the 
confident air of one, who has not the shadow of a doubt, that thb 
response will be entirely in his favor, — ‘ let me ask, if either of 
you ever saw me the worse for liquor, or heard of such a thing in 
your lives'?’ — Geoffrey and John turned their countenances upon 
me, and Mrs. Middleton cast her eyes upon the floor. I perceived 
it was my duty to speak, and to speak frankly. — ‘ My young 
friend,’ said I, ‘ when I tell you, that the visit you are now receiv- 
ing from your brothers was concerted by me, you will believe that I 
entirely concur with them in their solicitation. We all urge you to 
resign every species of intoxicating drink ; and we certainly think 
we have good reasons for the course we have adopted. You have 
put a direct question, which is entitled to an honest reply. Habits 
are insidious ; and they are commonly manifested to those about us, 
at an earlier period than we imagine. They are frequently apparent 
to others, before we ourselves are conscious of their existence. It 
is with the deepest regret, that I assure you of the fact, — you have 
aa}uired the reputation of an intemperate man.’ — If a skilful physi- 
cian had affirmed that the plague had fastened upon his body, he 
could not have been more completely overthrown. He stared upon 
me with wild amazement ; — poor Margaret burst into a flood of 
tears, and buried her face in her hands. — ‘ I am grieved to give 


154 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


pain,’ continued I, ‘ but I am bound, by many considerations, as you 
well know, to be explicit. You ask if we, or either of us, ever 
knew you to be the worse for liquor, or heard of such a thing. Men, 
who love and desire to respect you, men of years and high standing, 
have told me, that an impression had long since gone abroad, that 
you were unfitted for professional business in the afternoon. The 
docket, which is before me at every term, has indicated, for the last 
three years, an extraordinary declension of your business. Your 
furniture was attached this morning by a wine-merchant. Your 
personal appearance, — the loss, in some considerable degree, of 
your good looks, — has become a subject for remark among your 
acquaintances. Your case is also frequently cited, as I am informed, 
by those, who are desirous of proving, by forcible example, the 
insufficiency of the old-fashioned temperance pledge. Now, it is 
apparent, that any individual, so circumstanced in every respect, is 
decidedly the worse for liquor, in mind, body, and estated — ‘ Sir,’ 
said he, with something like asperity, ‘I see how it is; — I have 
long thought it might be well for me lo try my fortune and seek for 
friends elsewhere.’ — ‘ You will seek in vain elsewhere,’ said I, ‘ for 
better friends, than are now gathered around you. Your course is a 
plain one ; — sign the pledge of total abstinence at once ; resume 
your position as a distinguished leader among the advocates of this 
holy cause ; and live down this evil reputation, which is gathering 
about you. Depend upon it, my dear young friend, your clients 
will return, your days will be brighter, and yours will be again the 
happy fireside that it was, when Margaret first exchanged a fond 
father’s roof for your own.’ — ‘ I wish the voice of our father and 
mother could speak from their graves,’ said Geoffrey Middleton. — 
‘ Do sign the pledge, dear brother,’ cried John, as he sprang from 
his chair, and seized Arthur by the hand. — Margaret had risen 
from her seat, and was standing by his side, with her hand upon 
his shoulder. — ‘My dear husband,’ said she, — the tears, that 
choked her utterance, fell fast upon his bosom. At length he rose, 
and with vehemence exclaimed, that he was pledged already, — 
that he had sworn most solemnly, and upon many occasions, that 
he would never sign the pledge of total abstinence from all intoxi- 
cating drinks, nor put it in the power of the fanatics to say he had 
relinquished the use of fermented liquors. 

‘ We urged upon his consideration, the utter emptiness of all 
such rash and senseless vows, and pressed him, in the most earnest 
and affectionate manner, with every species pf argument, which 
seemed likely to operate upon his head and heart. It was all in 
vain. He remained fixed and unchangeable ; and, after an inter- 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


155 


view of more than two hours, we were compelled to relinquish out 
task, as apparently impracticable by man. He continued in his 
old habit; his health, especially the digestive function, became 
impaired ; his business declined ; embarrassment gathered rapidly 
about him ; his temper became irritable ; and his disposition ap- 
peared to lose almost the whole of that natural frankness, which, at 
the age of twenty-one, had rendered Arthur Middleton an object 
of universal admiration and esteem. From the period of our late 
interview, he assumed, towards his very best friends, a more cold 
and formal carriage. His very look and manner seemed distinctly 
to proclaim his fixed resolve, to hear nothing further upon a certain 
subject. Nothing seemed left, for a Christian friend, but to remem- 
ber him most earnestly in prayer, and, in all possible ways, to melio- 
rate the condition of his unhappy family. 

“ His habit of intemperance was unquestionably, in its commence- 
ment, a social vice. As it became more absorbing in its character, 
more imperative in its demands, one after another, his old associates 
began to break away from his society. A few still gathered together, 
with whom the festive qualities of wine were of little moment, com- 
pared with its magic power of balancing accounts ; of smothering 
care beneath its mantle of oblivion ; of hiding the neglected wife, 
and the group of starving little ones, from the profligate husband 
and apostate father. At length, it happened to Arthur Middleton, 
as it has happened to many others, that he could sit and drink, glass 
after glass, — and all alone, — till the waning afternoon left him too 
little space for any profitable occupation at his office, and persuaded 
him to finish his second bottle of Port or Madeira, before that insipid 
hour, — in the tippler’s estimation, — the hour for tea. 

“ Among Mr. Middleton’s bottle-companions, there was probably 
not one, who, like himself, had scrupulously abstained from the use 
of ardent spirits. I have been repeatedly assured, that, to the very 
last, he held them and their employment in abhorrence. 

“ About four months after our unsuccessful effort to correct his 
intemperate habit, I had passed the last hour of the afternoon with 
Mrs. Middleton. When I inquired after her husband and Elinor, 
their only child, she told me he had gone, that day, to dine with 
Major McBride, in the country ; and, against her judgment, had 
taken Elinor with him in the gig, but had promised to bring her 
home before tea. .This Major McBride was a miserable fellow, a 
bad husband and father, and an intemperate man. Mrs. Middleton’s 
manifest anxiety was occasioned, in part, by her knowledge of these 
facts. After waiting more than an hour for their return, we took 
our places at the table. It was a chill autumnal evening, and snow 


156 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


had begun to fall. We sat in silence for some time. — ‘You seem 
ill,’ said I ; ‘ perhaps you will feel better if you sip a little tea.’ — 
‘Really,’ she replied, ‘I have no appetite. I am very anxious 
about Mr. Middleton and Elinor. She has been very ill of late.’ — • 

I said everything, which suggested itself to my mind, in the shape 
of comfort and encouragement. The time passed wearily enough. 
Hours rolled slowly away, and it was nearly eleven, when we heard 
a vehicle stop at the door. I rose and opened it myself. I saw 
nothing but a butcher’s cart. — ‘ Pray,’ said I to the driver, who 
had already alighted, ‘ have you seen anything of Mr. Middleton!’ 

— ‘ Yes, sir,’ he replied, in an under tone, ‘ he ’s in my cart, — met 
viith a pretty had accident.’ — ‘ Where is the young lady!’ said I, 
impatiently. — ‘ I can’t tell you, sir ; — I only know, that I saw a 
chaise dashed to pieces, about three miles out of town ; and, while 
I was looking at it, two gentlemen — one called the other Doctor 
Jones — asked me, if I knew where ’Squire Middleton lived. I told 
’em I did, and then they brought him out of the house, and got me 
to bring him home.’ — ‘And why does he not get out of your 
wagon!’ said I. — ‘ Why, I guess he can’t very well,’ replied the 
man, ‘ without a little help.’ — During this conversation, which was 
carried on in a low voice, Mrs. Middleton, oppressed with a fear of 
some undefined tidings of evil, had not quitted the apartment, but, 
falling upon her knees, had thrown herself upon the mercy of her 
God. — Mr. Middleton was speedily removed from the wagon. He 
could not stand. I supported him to the parlor door, and, attempt- 
ing to walk, he fell prostrate upon the carpet, His poor wife sprang 
to his assistance, — v.’e placed him in a chair. — ‘ Arthur,’ said she, 
in an agonized tone, which I can never forget, ‘ what is the matter! 
^ — where is Elinor!’ — He made no reply. — ‘Mr. Middleton,’ said 

[, speaking in a clear voice, and directly in his ear, ‘ what has 
befallen you! where is your daughter! where is Elinor!’ — He 
uttered an inarticulate sound, and shook his head. He was drunk, 

— utterly drunk. I might as well have demanded a response from 
the dumb beast of the field. — I turned to request Mrs. Middle; on to 
call a servant, that we might bear her husband to his chamber ; — 
the tempest in a mother's bosom had already done its work ; — she 
hid swooned upon the floor. — I summoned the domestic. After 
the usual appliances, the poor suiferer was appafently restored to 
her senses. — ‘I am rejoiced to see you more calm,’ said I. — She 
turned upon me, with the same sweet smile, that used to beam upon 
her lovely features when a girl. I had not seen it for years. It 
had been lost amid the cares and anxieties of life. It cut me to the 
soul, — it was so strange and ill-timed. — ‘ What is the matter with 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


157 


you, Margaret?’ said I, taking her hand, and looking steadfastly 
upon her. — ‘Elinor is dead!’ said she. — ‘Drive such thoughts 
from your imagination,’ said I, ‘ if you value your own peace and 
mine.’ — She threw her arms about my neck, and, with the same 
unchanged expression, — the same sweet smile, — whispered in my 
ear, ‘ We will not have any funeral, but you and I will dig her 
grave in her little garden, before the snow covers the ground ; — 
come with me now,’ said she, rising from her chair. — I perceived 
tliat her reason was shattered, — perhaps gone forever. 

“ With the assistance of a kind neighbor, Mr. Middleton was borne 
to his apartment. A physician was soon called to prescribe for his 
unhappy wife, and I had despatched a messenger, to gather, if pos- 
sible, some tidings of Elinor. The physician was soon in attend- 
ance, and proclaimed, that, although manifestly intoxicated, Mr. 
Middleton had received a severe blow on the left temple.” 

“ Pray, mynheer,” said the old Dutchman, who was exceedingly 
affected, “ vas dere much harm to de poor young lady?” — “ While 
the family physician,” continued the elderly gentleman, “was 
engaged above stairs, I remained below, waiting the return of the 
messenger, whom I had despatched. It was after twelve o’clock, 
when I heard a gentle knock at the outer door. I opened it my- 
self, and a gentleman entered, who introduced himself as Dr. Jones. 
— ‘ I believe, sir,’ said he, ‘ that I am in the house of Mr. Middle- 
ton.’ ‘ Yes, sir,’ said I ; ‘ I heard your name from the person, who 
brought him home a few hours since, and beseech you to give me 
tidings, if you can, of his daughter.’ — ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘I am the 
messenger of evil. I know nothing of the relation between Mr. 
Middleton and the young lady, whose body now lies at my house ; 
but — ’ — ‘ She is dead, then !’ I exclaimed. — ‘I am grieved,’ he 
replied, ‘ to say it is even so. — I perceive, sir, from your emotion, 
that you have a deep interest in this event, and will recount all that 
I know of it. About nine in the evening, a neighbor came to me 
in haste, with intelligence, that two persons had been thrown from 
a chaise, near my residence, and were either killed or severely 
injured. I immediately repaired to the spot, with lights and assis- 
tants. I discovered a gentleman and a young lady, lying appar- 
ently senseless, upon the ground. The gentleman I instantly recog- 
nized to be ’Squire Middleton. I examined his limbs ; none were 
broken ; and though bruised, no doubt, by his fall upon the frozen 
ground, he did not seem to be seriously injured. He could scarcely 
articulate, and seemed unable to give any account of the disaster. 
This circumstance I was compelled to understand, as connected 
jrith the^ cause, rather than the eflfect of the accident. The road 

roL. II. 14 


158 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


was broad and smooth, and the stars unusually bright. The young 
lady was without sense or motion. She was taken a very short 
distance to my house. Upon a careful examination, I discovered 
that three ribs were broken and the skull severely fractured. Death 
was produced, beyond a doubt, almost instantaneously. The 
chaise, which was broken to pieces, had been driven, as we per- 
ceived by the wheel-tracks upon the light snow, entirely out of the 
road and against the wall.’ 

“On the following morning, Mrs. Middleton remained in the 
same condition of mind. She had not slept during the night. Her 
husband was threatened with a brain fever. The physician sug- 
gested, as a last resort, the propriety of leading the distracted 
mother to the apartment, where the body of Elinor lay, and which 
had been brought to the house, at an early hour of the morning. 
It was suggested, as an expedient that had been tried in similar 
cases, and sometimes with the happiest elFect. ‘ We may expel the 
creature of the imagination,’ said the physician, ‘ by substituting 
the reality, awful as it is ; and the mind having gotten back into 
the channel of natural grief, time and care may be expected to eifect 
a cure. Upon a somewhat similar principle, we deal with certain 
diseases of the body, — we convert an ulcer into a burn, and cure 
the burn at our leisure, or suffer it to cure itself.’ As it appeared 
to him, that matters could not be made worse by the experiment, 1 
yielded my consent. — I entered Mrs. Middleton’s apartment, and 
giving her my arm, requested her to walk with me. — ‘ Then you 
will go with me,’ said she, with the same touching expression, ‘ and 
dig little Elinor’s grave.’ — I made no reply, and she suffered her- 
self to be conducted to the apartment, where the body of her poor 
Elinor lay. The physician followed, to render such assistance as 
might be needed. I opened the door, — the body had not yet been 
committed to its narrow house, — it lay arrayed in the vestment of 
the grave, and retained, in an unusual degree, the semblance of liv- 
ing and breathing slumber. — The mother’s eye fastened upon the 
object before her, — with expanded arms she darted towards it, and 
clasped the cold body to her throbbing heart. — I looked at the 
physician, — he placed his finger upon his lips, and I continued 
motionless and still. — After a pause of many seconds, .she raised 
herself from the bed, and gazed upon the corpse. — ‘Elinor!’ said 
she, ‘Elinor! my child! speak to me,’ — then putting her hand 
upon its brow, — ‘How cold!’ she exclaimed, and turning her 
inquiring gaze upon us both, — ‘ is it sol’ she cried in a faltering 
voice, — the smile of disordered imagination had fled — the lip 
(jtiiviBred — the uplifted eye turned again to Him, with whwn aro 


THE STAGE-COACH. ' 


159 


the issues of life and of death — and the dry and feverish tempest 
of the soul found vent, at last, in a torrent of tears. — ‘ It is w'ell,’ 
said the physician, in an under tone, and, drawing a chair by her 
side, he took her hand, while she lay her head upon my bosom and 
sobbed aloud. — ‘And how is this?’ said she, after a long paroxysm 
of sorrow. The physician proceeded, with great calmness and pro- 
priety, to narrate the circumstances, in as brief a manner as possible. 
She was then extremely urgent to see her husband, but this, in his 
highly-excited state, was positively forbidden. 

“ The fever ran its course, and left him exceedingly feeble. His 
poor wife, who, after a few days, was permitted to approach his 
sick bed, though suffering herself intensely, was constantly at his 
side. The physician, after the lapse of three or four weeks, pro- 
nounced him to be in a decline. During this period, I was fre- 
quently in his chamber, as were his brothers, Geoffrey and John. 
It was truly affecting, to witness his contrition. The image of his 
ill-fated child was constantly before him, and, at times, when he 
was upbraiding himself as the cause of her death, no martyr on the 
wheel ever presented a picture of more perfect agony than that, 
which tortured the soul of this miserable man. He was fully sensi 
ble of his approaching end. — ‘ It is too late for me,’ said he, one 
day, as we were all sitting by his bed-side, ‘ to do much good by 
my example; possibly, however,’ he added, ‘the attestation of a 
dying man may have some little influence when I am no more. If 
you think so, I will sign the pledge of your society.’ John Middle- 
ton soon procured the book, and this unhappy young man, with 
considerable effort, wrote his name for the last time. ‘ Would to 
God,’ he feebly cried, turning to his wretched partner, as the pen 
fell from his faltering hand, ‘ that I had done this, dear Margaret, 
before our dark days began.’ — He lived but a week after this event ; 
and I have good reason to believe, that the sight of this trembling 
autograph, — almost the last act of a dying man, — was not with- 
out its influence upon a few of his misguided associates. I was 
with him, during his last moments ; they were certainly moments 
of the deepest contrition. As I closed the eyes of this young man, 
and gazed upon his cold, and pale, and motionless features, I was 
forcibly struck by the almost inconceivable change, which had taken 
place in the compass of a few fleeting years. I had taken unusual 
pains in preparing Arthur Middleton for his professional career, 
lie was under my eye, as a student in my office, for three years. 
I had acquired an intimate knowledge of his character. His talents 
were of a very high order ; he had the keenest sense of honor ; his 
4ispoeition was altogether amiable, and his deportment umveraally 


160 


THE STAGE-COACH. 


acceptable. His professional prospects were equal to those of any 
gentleman of similar standing. He had married the girl of his 
heart, and their matrimonial connection, formed under the happiest 
auspices, gave abundant promise of all that rational felicity, of which 
the married relation is susceptible. Their union was cemented by 
the birth of an uncommonly beautiful and lovely daughter. But all 
these considerations were insufficient to restrain his appetite for wine ; 
talents and learning, health and reputation, wife and child, and even 
life itself were sacrificed upon the altar of this false god.’* 

“ And pray, mynheer,” said the old Dutchman, “ vat vas de fate 
of de poor lady herself 1” — During many parts of the recital, the 
countenance of the narrator had indicated the deepest emotion ; yet 
he had related the story, on the whole, with great firmness of voice 
and calmness of manner. But the old Dutchman's interrogatory 
was perfectly overwhelming. The elderly gentleman’s features 
were instantly convulsed, and the tears ran freely down his cheeks. 
— “ I pe feared I as done wrong, mynheer,” said the old Dutchman, 
with a look of painful anxiety. — “No, sir,” said the narrator, 
after he had recovered his self-command, “ your inquiry is perfectly 
natural, and I have no desire to withhold from the world the full 
advantage, which it may derive from this melancholy example. 1 
am not desirous of concealing any part of that misery, which, in the 
present case, proceeded directly from the employment of a beverage, 
which by many is accounted so entirely innocent. The lady, whose 
fate you are desirous of knowing, still lives, — the tenant of a mad- 
house. After the death of her husband, she became exceedingly 
depressed ; and her melancholy, in a few months, became changed 
into absolute insanity. The sole object of my present journey is to 
visit this ill-fated girl. I have endeavored to suppress my emotions, 
as much as possible, during this painful recital. Those of you, 
who are parents, will readily pardon these tears, which it is not 
easy for an old man to restrain, while he is describing the sufferings 
of a devoted daughter, an only child.” — “Mine Got!” said the 
Dutchman, as he touched his hat reverentially. — A long and 
solemn pause ensued, which no one appeared disposed to interrupt. 
A deep and affecting impression had been produced upon us all, 
saving the young woman in the Tuscan bonnet, who had enjoyed a 
profound slumber for the last two hours. — At length we arrived at 
»)ur last stopping-place for the night — the passengers alighted, 
responding in their hearts to the sentiment expressed by the old 
Dutchman, as we were separating from one another, that “ nopody 
ought to pegrutch vat he pay for de Stage-Goach ” 


APPENDIX. 


NOTE. — Page 149. 

To tnose, who have studied the subject with careful attention, the mix 
ture of water with the elemental wine, at the eucharist, whatever the char- 
acter of that wine may have been, will appear neither an ^^adulteration'* 
nor an “ innovation ” upon primitive usage. So much misconception has 
prevailed, and still prevails, that it may not be a worthless sacrifice of time, 
for those, who have not duly considered this highly interesting subject, to 
give their attention to the evidence subjoined. 

Upon Matthew xxvi. 27, Bloomfield has the following commentary. — 
“ Wine and water were used in the paschal cup ; and the Rabbins say, over 
wine unmixed with water, no blessing is asked. This custom of mixing 
wine with water was adopted by the first Christians, and is still continued 
by the Romanists. See Justin Martyr, Clement, Cyprian, cited by Grb 
lius.” 

Water, mead, or hydromel, milk, the juice of the grapes pressed forth at 
the table, at the time of the celebration, — these and other matters were 
employed from the earliest times, at the eucharist ; and, while approved by 
some, were condemned by others. These facts are stated by Bingham, in his 
Antiquities, fol. ed. vol. i. book xv. chap. ii. sec. vii. Bingham is a writer 
of the highest authority. The use of water alone was reproliated by many ; 
so was the use of wine alone; in proof of this, he quotes Cyprian, Ep. 63 ad 
Caecilium. Cyprian was born in the beginning of the third century. The 
third Council of Carthage, says Bingham, expressly decreed, that nothing 
should be used but what Christ offered, that is, wine and water ; and he 
adds, that St. Austin was a member of that Council, who quotes Cyprian’s 
epistle with approbation, Gennadius, who wrote in the fifteenth century, 
questions not the ancient custom of using wine and water, but gives two rea- 
sons for it ; first, because Christ did so, and secondly, because water and 
blood flowed from hL side, when he was pierced. We have nothing to do 
with the second reason of Gennadius ; we desire only to establish the fact. 
St. Ambrose was of the same opinion. Milk, and also water, alone, and 
new wine, pressed from grapes at the table, and upon the occasion, were 
severally condemned at the Council of Braga. But the same Council ex- 
pressly approved of wine and water. The Council of Auxerre decreed 
against honey and mead, but expressly in favor of wine mired with water. 
Justin Martyr, Apol. ii. p. 97, and Irenseus, lib. 4, chap. 57, explicitly state, 
that wine mixed with water, was used at the Lord’s supper. Irenaeus was 
born A. D. 120. The birth-time of Justin Martyr is not known ; he was 
converted A. D. 130. Bingham does not consider it necessary to mix wine 
with water, but his words clearly prove, that he entertained no doubt that 
such had been the primitive usage. — “ Yet, after all,” says he, “ as there is 
no express command for this in the institution, notwithstanding this genera/ 
consent of the ancient Churches, it is commonly determined by modern 
divines, as well of the Roman as Protestant communion, that it is not essen- 
tial to the sacrament itself.” It would not be decorous to oflTer our own ver- 
?OL. II. 14 * 


162 


APPENDIX. 


sion, unaccompanieo jy the original text. St. Jerome, commenting on Mark 
xiv., writes thus : — “ Accepit Jesus panem, &c. formans sanguinem suum 
in calicem, vino et aqua mixtam, ui alio purgcmur a culpis, alio redimaintir 
a panis.” “Jesus took bread, &c. and ibrmiug his blood in the cup, with 
a mixture of wine and water, that, by one, we might be cleansed from our 
sins, and, by the other, redeemed from our punishments.” 

Probably the most able writer upon this subject, is Gerard John Vossius, 
whose works were printed at Amsterdam, in six volumes, folio. In vol. vi. 
D. 426, he treats “ de sacris coence Dominicae symbolis — “concerning 
the sacred symbols of the Lord’s supper.” Having treated of the bread, he 
proceeds, on page 439, to treat of the other element. “ Venio nunc,” says 
he, “ad alterum symbolum, quod vinum esse, inde cognoscimus, quia illud 
yfvrt^iua rijg a/uTzUov disertim appellet Christus.” — “I come now to the 
other symbol, which we know to be wine, because Christ expressly calls it 
the. /rut/ of the vine.'' That is to say, Vossius had the same reason, which 
we have, and no other, for calling “ the fruit of the vine ” by the general name 
wine, whether fermented or not. This writer is opposed to the use of water 
alone, at the eucharist, but he expresses not the slightest doubt of the fact, 
that wine, mixed with water, was generally used in ancient times. He pro- 
ceeds, in the third thesis, to inquire what shall be substituted, if wine can- 
not be had, and quotes an extract from one of Beza’s letters, and approves 
the doctrine it contains. Beza died early in the seventeenth century. The 
extract runs thus : “ Rogatus piae memoriae vir D. Calvinus a fratribus, qui 
turn in America erant, ubi nulius est vini usus, liceretne pro vino, uti in 
coena Domini, vel aqua simplici, qua plerumque illic utuntur, vel alio illic 
non inusitato potionis genere : respondit, fuisse in hoc instituendo sacrtimento 
consilium, ut spiritualis alimoniae nobis sub communis cibi et potus sym- 
bolis representaret : ac proinde, si non fuisset turn in Judaea communis vini 
usus, procul dubio alia vulgari potione usurum fuisse, quod ex ipsius scopo 
ac consilio liqueat. Itaque nihil a Christ! consilio ac voluntale alienum 
facere videri, qui non contemtu, neque temeritate, sed ipsa necessitate adacti, 
pro vino aliud in iis regionibus usitatae potionis genus usurparent. Hoc D 
Calvin! responsum, ut optima ratione nixum, et Christ! consilio consenta 
neum, noster coetus adeo comprobavit, ut eos superstitiose facere censuerit 
qui a vini symbolo usque adeo penderent, ut alteram coenae partem omitten 
mallent, quam avukoyov aliud symbolum, ita cogente necessitate, usurpare.’ 
“ D. Calvin, a man of pious memory, being asked by his brethren, who wer^ 
then in America, where wine was not used, if it would be lawful to use, at 
the Lord’s supper, either pure water, which was the common drink there, ot 
any oiiier customary beverage, replies, that, in instituting the sacrament, it 
was intended, under the symbols of common meat and drink, to represent a 
spiritual aliment ; and, if wine had not been a common drink in Judea, at 
that time, it is clear, beyond all doubt, from the very scope and design of 
tlie institution, that some other common beverage would have been employed. 
Therefore, those persons, who substituted some other customary drink of 
those regions for wine, having acted neither contemptuously nor rashly, but 
from necessity, appear in no wise to have contravened the will or design of 
Christ. This answer of D. Calvin, full of sound sense, and so agreeable to 
the design of Christ, our assembly so entirely approves, that it considers 
those as acting superstitiously, who lay so great a stress on wine, that they 
had ratiier omit the rest of the supper, than employ any other analogous 
•ymbol, in such cases of necessity.” We have given, as w© believe, a faith- 


APPENDIX. 


163 


ftjl translation. The opinion of D. Calvin is approved, not only by Beza 
and Vossius, but by the “ assembly.” So far as the opinions of D. Calvin, 
and Beza, and the “ assembly ” are entitled to pass for authority, we camiot 
doubt, that, wherever the fruit of the vine is not a “ common beverage, any 
other innocent beverage may be employed, provided the communicants are 
not moved to the change by a spirit of “ rashness ” or “ contempt ” for the 
ordinance. The necessity does not seem to depend on the fact, that not a 
drop of wine can be had, but that it is not a common beverage. \i fer- 
mented wine, therefore, were used at the original institution, how can it be 
considered essential, under all circumstances, to a just performance of the 
rite? 

The Council of Clermont, can. 28, enjoins the communion in both kin^s, 
a Iding two exceptions, “ one of necessity and the other of caution the first 
in favor of the “sick,” the other of the “abstemious,” or those who had an 
aversion for wine. — We now proceed to give the remainder of the extract 
from the letter of Beza. “There were some,” says Vossius, “who might 
object to water, because of the imperfectness of the analogy, inasmuch as 
water was not composed of many grapes, signifying that we are many 
members of one body :” “ Deinde quia objici poterat aquae in simile potione 
non incsse araloyiav illam, ut ex multis acinis confiat, ad mutuam conjunc- 
tionem testandam.” To this the letter of Beza replies as follows ; — “ That 
truly the analogy of bread, composed of many grains, and wine, of many 
grapes, is not to be disregarded ; but still it should not be too precisely 
enforced ; for it is enough, if the unity of the members be signified by the use 
of the symbols, that is, meat and drink, in some kind, and by^ testifying the 
same faith :” “ Non esse quidem negligendam, at non tamen adeo precise 
urgendam analogiam panis ex multis granis, et vini ex multis acinis confecti : 
sed ad illam mutuam conjunctionem testificandam sufficere, quod iisdem in 
genere sy^mbolis, nempe cibo et potu utamur, eandemque fidem testiticemur.” 

— A question was afterwards proposed in relation to abstemious persons, and 
such as were unable to take wine on account of its cflects: to this he 
replies, rather than omit the whole supper, let such use water or any other 
customary drink ; nor doubt that the blood of Christ would be as surely 
communicated to him by the symbol of such drink, as by that of wine, since 
the promise is general, and refers to all the faithful: “ Potius quam inte- 
gram ccenam non peragat, vel aqua, vel alia sibi familiar! potione utatur ; 
neque dubitet, tarn sibi sub hoc potu, quam sub vino, sanguinem Christi 
communicari, cum promissio sit generalis, et ad omnes fideles spectet.” 

— Philip Melancthon observes, that the Rutlienians acted rightly, who 
substituted hy’^dromel, or honey and water, at the eucharist, on account of 
the scarcity of wine. Upon this, Bellarminus exclaims, lib. iv. c. 24, de 
Euchar. : “ Sed quis dedit Philippo auctoritatem mutandi sacramentorum 
materiam ? ” — “ But who gave Philip authority to change the material ot 
the sacrament?” Whereupon Vossius remarks, — “As though Christ, 
in the institution of the supper, referred not generally to the utility of some 
drink, hui particularly Xo the propriety of wine!” “ Gluasi Christus non 
universe utilitatem potus, sed particulatim vini proprietatem in institutione 
lespexerit ! ” To exhibit the character of Bellarminus, Vossius observes, 

— This Bellarminus presently adds, “ How much more wisely has the 
Church of Rome conducted ; she has not changed the materials of the 
■acrament, but remedied its defects, by administering to the people ia 
one kind “ Q,uanto sapientius ecclesia (Romana) non rnutat saeramen ’ 


164 


APPENDIX. 


torum materias ; sed incommode illi medetur, unam speciem tantum mfn- 
istrando.” — In contemplation of such facts, and with the opinions of the 
ancient fathers before us, is it not perfectly absurd to proclaim, that nothing 
can rightfully be employed at the communion, but fermented wine, auu 
that even this cannot be mingled with water, without “an unhallowed 
innovation ? ” ‘ 

Vossius, in his fourth thesis, vol. vi. p. 440, proceeds to inquire “ an 
vinum aqua dilui sit necesse if it be necessary — not if it be an “ unhal- 
lowed innovation ” — so to mix the wine and water. No person can fail to 
perceive, that, however unnecessary, in the view of some persons, Vossius 
never surmised that it was unlawful, much less an “ unhallowed innova- 
tion.'^ Our readers are convinced, by this time, that this most learned and 
sagacious writer knew something more of these matters than certain modern 
divines. Vossius expressly states — “ Christum ipsum prsecipisse, ut 
aqua vino misceatur sensit Cyprianus Epist. 63, ad Coecilium : “ Cyprian 
thinks, that Christ commanded water to be mixed with wine." Vossius 
also refers to the third Council of Carthage, which decreed the same thing, 
(can, 24,) that, in the sacrament of the body and blood of our Lord, nothing 
more should be offered than the Lord himself delivered, that is, bread and 
wine, mixed with water : “ ut, in sacramentis corporis et sanguinis Dom 
ini, nihil amplius offeratur, quam ipse Dominus tradidit, hoc est panis, el 
vinum, aqua mixtum.” Commenting on this opinion, Gregory Valentin 
remarks, that this is much more probable than the notion that this practice 
originated with the church : “ hanc senteiitiam esse magis probabilem, quam 
ilia, ut solum Ecclesiaslici sit praecepti:” Disput. vi. qusest. 11, de Euch, 
mat. punct. 1. Gregory adds, that Hosius, Alanus, and Scotus have expressed 
the same opinion. These writers, says Vossius, place the foundation of this 
opinion in the example of Christ, who, as Justin, Irenaeus, and others of 
the ancients inform us, diluted the wine : — “ Fundamentum hi senlentiae 
suae ponunt exemplum Christi, quern diluisse vinum tradunt Juslinus, Ire- 
naeus, et alii veterum.” — Vossius is rather in favor of omitting the water, 
on the ground that it is not absolutely necessary, but the notion never occurs 
to him that such mixing of wine with water is unlawful, or in any way 
improper, much less, that it is an ^'unhallowed innovation." On the con- 
trary, he quotes Justin Martyr’s words to prove that bread, wine, and water 
were employed. Justin, who was converted, as we stated before, A. D. 1 30, in 
his description of the supper, (apolog. 1 1 ,) speaks of the eucharistal bread, 
and wine and water, “rov tvjcaQi&fvrog agrov, xui oi'vov, xal vdarog.’* 
It is for the same reason, says Vossius, that Irenaeus speaks of the temper- 
ing of the cup; “ temperamentnm calicis,” lib. iv. cap. 11, Cyprian, con- 
tinues he, speaks of it in many places ; so do Julius, Basil, Gregory, Chrys- 
ostom, Jerome, Augustin, Proclus, Bede, Damascenus, Rabanus Mautus, 
Paschasius, Algerus, Nicephorus, and many others of the fathers and 
ancient writers. The curious reader may find the particular passages with 
ease, by recurring to the references of Vossius. — The words employed, 
at the Council of Trent, are these : — The holy Synod admonishes, there- 
for€ that it is commanded by the Church to its ministers, that they shal’ 
mix water with the wine, in offering the cup, because it is believed that 
Christ our Lord did so, &c. : “ Monel deinde sancia Synodus, praeceptum 
esse ab Ecclesia sacerdotibus, ut aquam vino in calice offerendo miscerent, 
turn quod Christum Dominum ita fecisse credalur,” etc. — It is, surely, 
unnecessary to press this evidence any further. 


THE LIFE-PHESERVER 


Temperai»*'S ships are claiming and receivinsr a lar^e proportion of popular favor. The verl 1 k 
Wo freonently rdn^nished of their inestimable value, by the occurrence of nautical dtsaiteie 
demonstrated Ij arise from the employment of intoxicating liquors. Innumerable instances of the 
most altlicting- calamities at sea, arising from this prolific source, may be gathered from the records 
ef navigation, in every age. The wreck of the Halsewell East Imliaman, in 17ti5, upon the rocks 
between Peveril Peak and St. Alban’s Head, arose from the drunken desperation of the crew. 
(Jpon that occasion, many lives were lost. Nothing, however, excited the public sympathy more 
strongly, than the fate of Captain Pearce, her commander, who. after every exertion to preserve 
the passengers and crew, was swept overboard with his two lovely daughters, locked in the arms of 
one another. 

The case of the General Arnold, wrecked December 26th, 1778, is well known. A particular 
account of that calamity may be found in Dr. Thatcher’s History of Plymouth. “ Those tcho drank 
rum," says the historian, “ were the more immediate victims, several being found dead, in the very 
tpot where they drank it." 

The Kent, East Indiaman, was burnt at sea, in February, 1825, at night. She was a fine vessel, 
•f 14(10 tons, and had on board, at the time of the disaster, 20 military otlicer8,344 soldiers, 43 women, 
68 children, and 143, ship’s officers and crew. Uf these, 81 were buried in the deep. All probably 
would have shared a similar fate, had not the ship Cambria, guided by the light of the fire, borne 
down to the rescue. This awful casualty was occasioned by a soldier, who had gotten into the 
spirit-room, and undesignedly set fire to the liquor, which he had come to steal. 

The loss of the steam-pkcket Kothsay Castle is familiar to us all. She was wrecked August, 1831, 
near Beaumaris, in the Menai Strait. Upon that occasion, more than one hundred men, women, 
and children were buried in the ocean. This awful disaster has always been attributed to the 
drunkenness of the commander. He fell a victim to his own misconduct. 

The year, which has just now closed, has left us the record of similar calamities amidst our own 
waters, — upon our own shores, — involving deeper and more complicated misery, and a greater 
sacrifice of human life. 

On the ninth day of May, 1837, at one o’clock in the morning, the steamer, Ben Sherrod, was 
destroyed by fire on the river Mississippi, upon her passage from New Orleans to Louisville. Upon 
that occasion, one hundred and fifty lives were lost. A committee of investigation, composed of 
highly respectable individuals, appointed at a public meeting in the city of Natchez, pre'senled a 
long and elaborate report, on the 16th day of May, 1837. In that report, they employ the following 
words : — 

“ Your committee would further report, that, at the time the Sherrod took fre, the hands on duty 
were in a state of intoxication, having access at all times to a barrel of whiskey, placed forward of 
the boiler-deck for their use; and that the engineer then on duty was equally culpable, having fur- 
nished the firemen with large quantities of brandy or other spirits, as an inducement to keep up 
excessive fires, with a view of overtaking the Prairie, then ahead of them." 

The captain of the Ben Sherrod has published a defence, — a matter of course. Had he lived, the 
captain of the Rothsay Castle would also, in all human probability, have published a defence. In 
his defence, the captain of the Ben Sherrod boldly claims the reputation of unusual temperance for 
himself and his boat ; at the same time, he admits that a keg of whiskey was always kept open, day 
and night, on deck, for the use of the crew ; and that he never attempted to restrain them from 
indulging their appetites by any other process, than by expulsion from the boat, — when they wers 
drunK. 

The attention of the community has been called more recently to the destruction of the steam- 
packet Home, on the coast of North Carolina. The following little narrative, which, for reasons 
that will become apparent to the reader, we have called The Life-Preserver, is founded upon this 
awfu’ calamity. The names are fictitious, but dates and circumstances are not materially varied. 
The Home left New York for Charleston, S. C , between four and five o’clock, P. M., October 7th, 
1837. The crew, comprising officers, were forty-three in number, and she had on board between 
ni lety and one hundred passengers, of both sexes, very many of them of the highest respectability 
and sta''ding in society. Sixty hours had not elapsed, from the monient of their departure, befora 
the steamer was a wreck, and ninety-five human beings were buried in the deep. 


MEAroRY has been called a labyrinth: — How readily the smile 
of an old acquaintance, whom we have not seen for many years, 
furnishes a clew to some of its recesses, and unfolds the record of 
tlie past ! 1 encountered my old friend, Roger Kennedy, about a 

month ago. The last time I had seen him was on the day of our 


166 


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ieparation at the university. Ho was wonderfully ahered Time 
had come down with all its powers of alchemy upon my friend 
Roger : it had chang^ed his dark brown hair for a badg'er’s gray ; 
and ploughed, and cross-ploughed among his features, and so varied 
the surface, that not a land-mark remained. His keen, black eyes 
were intently fixed upon me, as we drew more closely together. ] 
should nevertheless have passed him by, as an utter stranger, had 
he not revived my recollection, by one of those good-natured and 
peculiar smiles, w'hich, in connection with his admirable qualities, 
had obtained for him the appellation of honest Roger Kennedy. It 
operated like the finger of magic ; and, in an instant, a thousand 
ong-buried images of the past sprang from their graves. 1 took 
tiim home with me, to the endangerment of my caste, at least in the 
eyes of Colonel Faddle, with whom I happened to be walking, and 
who, after glancing for an instant at poor Roger’s rusty black, bade 
me a formal good morning, and left us together. We gave the 
residue of the day to a thousand reminiscences, the majority of 
which would have been utterly uninteresting to all the world beside. 

Roger Kennedy had long been a country parson, living on a 
moderate salary. His early and consistent piety had adapted him, 
in an eminent degree, for the holy office ; and his happy disposition 
enabled him to be more at ease upon his humble competency, than 
many an archbishop upon a princely revenue. He was a faithful 
shepherd, and an honest man ; and, though he was in the habit of 
frequently preaching thrice on the Sabbath, he never referred to it 
unnecessarily, nor solicited the sympathies of his parishioners, on 
account of his Mondayish feelings. Notwithstanding his apparent 
humility, no anxious competitor for a bishopric had ever a greater 
share of ambition than Roger Kennedy ; but Roger's highest am 
bition was to serve the Lord, and save the souls of his fellow-men. 

“ I have been much gratified,” said he, “ to hear, that you have 
taken a lively interest in the temperance cause, and still more, that 
you have adopted the principle of total abstinence from all intoxi- 
cating liquors. You drank wine at college, I believe.” — “ Yes,” I 
replied, “ and long after, and well remember to have taken a glass 
now and then with Roger Kennedy.” — “ I have not forgotten it,” 
said he, with a smile. “ Neither of us, I believe, was ever in the 
habit of taking ardent spirit. However absurd it may appear to us 
at the present day, wine was a very common beverage for under- 
graduates, during our college life.” — “It is by no means aban- 
doned even at the present day,” I replied. — “What an escape 
some of us have had !” he rejoined. 

We enumerated more than twenty of our class, who still lived 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


167 


intemperate men, or had died so ; and several, who had turned from 
their early habi s of indulgence, and taken worthier courses. We 
expressed our mutual astonishment, wnth the record of our college 
life before us, that any doubt should have existed, as to the propriety 
of comprehending fermented liquors in the temperance pledge. 

“ Pray, friend Kennedy,” said I, “ can you tell me anything of 
Jack Montgomery, whom we used to call Ready Jack, on account 
of the alacrity, with which he embarked in any scheme of mirth oi 
madness!’’ — “Poor Jack!” said he; “he was not ready for ah 
things. He was not ready to die. Free-thinking and free-drinking 
were the ruin of Jack Montgomery. With all his vaunting, he died 
a most fearful and truly miserable death.” — “I knew he was an 
infidel,” said I. — “ He was so,” replied Kennedy, “until a few 
hours before his death ; and whether his dying declarations were . 
truly penitential, or the effects of terror, is known only to the 
Searcher of all hearts. How often, during our connection at the uni- 
versity, have I walked and conversed with poor Montgomery for 
hours together, of a moonlight night, upon this interesting topic ’ 
With the exception of this melancholy feature in his character, 
Montgomery was an amiable man, until he fell into habits of intem- 
perance. There was, as you are well aware, all that disparity 
between our fortunes, that lies betwixt affluence and poverty. He 
was kind to me, and I made him the only return in my power, — I 
wept over his miserable unbelief, and prayed unceasingly for his 
conversion. I urged every reason upon his mind, with which my 
limited reading had supplied me ; and, at last, for the sake of argu- 
ment, assumed his vagaries to be true. Suppose the doctrines of 
Christianity are false, — revelation is a legendary tale, — Christ, 
Calvary, the resurrection, the judgment day are all illusion, — there 
is no God, — yet the dread of death is so very general, that we give 
to it, by common consent, the appellation of the king of terrors. 
Many, w'ho are summoned to lay aside their crazy, time-worn tab- 
ernacles, filled with disease and suffering, are yet unwilling to com- 
ply I They have drained the cup of pleasure to its dregs — there is 
nothing there. They know, that an eternal sleep will terminate 
their sufferings, and they proclaim, that death is that eternal sleep. 
Why, then, shrink from its cold yet comforting embrace ! Because 
there is still a lurking, inextinguishable principle within, which 
whispers in their ears — If that sleep should not be eternal — what 
then? Death, after all, takes most men by surprise. If a doubt 
remain upon the infidel’s mind ?)f entire annihilation, that doubt, 
however it may fail to interrupt his career, while health and fortune 
ere at command, — in a dying hour will expand, till it b;irst tne 


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agonized heart with despair and madness.” — “ These are undoubt* 
edly the words of truth and soberness,” said I. “I perceive, that 
your views have undergone no change, friend Kennedy. Do you 
recollect some lines, which you wrote at the university, contrasting 
the last hours of a Christian and an Infidel?” — “I have an imper- 
fect recollection of them,” he replied. — “You gave me a copy 
some twenty years ago,” said I, “ and I have little doubt, that I can 
readily find them among my papers.” — I made the search, and soon 
plat ed before him upon the table, 

THE CROSS AND CRESCENT. 

In Holy Land, the fight was done, 

And those who lost and those who won 
In mingled carnage lay ; 

The sun its parting lustre gave. 

While sacred Jordan’s modest wave 
Blushed in its evening ray. 

And, when the moon o’er Hermon rose, 

Casting abroad on friends and foes 
Her cold, impartial beam, 

Christian and Moor, promiscuous throng, 

Crescent and Cross were swept along 
In Jordan’s hallowed stream. 

There rode, upon the Moorish side, 

A chief, that day, in turbaned pride, 

As frank as Moor can be : 

A braver Moslem never laid 
O’er Christian foe Damascus blade 
In holy chivalry. 

A gallant barb the Moor bestrode, 

And round the bloody field he rode, 

Like tiger for his prize : 

True to his idol god, he bore 
A Koran at his belt before. 

His guide to sensual skies. 

Athwart his way, his feet unshod, 

With scrip and staff, a pilgrim trod. 

Who sought the holy shrine : 

That pilgrim left his native shore. 

With Richard, and his good claymore. 

To fight in Palestine. 

“ Dovn, paynim, down,” he cried, “ and try 
Who best can fight, and calmest die. 

Where Jordan’s waters flow i ” 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER, 


I 


m 


To earth, like light, the Moslem came, 

In wrath invoked the prophet’s name, 

And rushed upon his foe. 

His scrip the pilgrim cast aside, 

And bared his blade ; “ For him,” he criaa. 

“ The cross who freely bore !” 

Each gave one parting stroke and fell. 

Pilgrim and Moorish infidel I 
They fell, to rise no more ! 

With flushing cheek and throbbing heart, 
Each marks his eddying life-blood part! 

To each his heaven is nigh ! 

Say, Moor, can wine or woman’s smile 
Thy pangs allay, thy fears beguile 7 
Or can thy prophet lie 7 

Oh ! mark that wretched paynim now. 

While rage and anguish rend his brow! 

His prophet, once adored. 

Despised and cursed ; his Koran rent ; 

His nerveless hand, with vain intent. 

Grasps at his broken sword ! 

Those lips, no more in rage set fast. 

Supinely part ; the strife is past ; 

The flickering purple flies ! 

His haggard eyeballs fiercely glare. 

For Death has set his signet there, 

He bites the dust, and dies! 

That wounded pilgrim marked him not ; 

This world its cares and joys forgot ; 

“ Thy will be done,” he cried ; 

Against a palm his shoulders braced ; 

Before him there his falchion placed. 

Its hilt the cross supplied. 

Upon that cross his thoughts reposed ; 

His hands were clasped, his eyes were closed 
And o’er his brow was seen 
A ray of mild, celestial light ; 

So smiles the pensive queen of night 
O’er Arnon’s wave serene. 

When fled the spirit none might know, 

By flush, or pang, or mortal throe ; 

There came no sob or sigh ; 

And less the parted pilgrim seemed 
Like dead man’s corse, than one who dreamsd 
Of brightter rfealms flp high. 

16 


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170 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


The faithless, like the pagan, die ; 

The hopeless with the Moslem lie : 

Who spurn that holy name, 

And doubt Jehovah’s awful power. 

Shall find their doubt in dying hour, 

Despair, and rage, and shame. 

Calm as the breath that gently blows 
The soft perfume of Sharon’s rose. 

Abroad in summer skies. 

So from the world the just shall part : 

The broken and the contrite heart. 

That God will not despise. 

He read the stanzas with manifest pleasure, and a faint oluah 
came over his features, as he returned me the manuscript. — “I 
see the poet is not quite extinct, friend Kennedy,” said I. — “I 
have hut little time for poetry,” he replied ; “a country parson’s 
life is made up almost entirely of sober prose. I have passed frorr 
theory to practice long ago. Those lines were of course the 
offspring of fancy. I have been long conversant with the grave 
realities of life — I have often witnessed the death of the faithful 
disciple and of the impenitent sinner. I have seen the man of 
v^ealth, and power, and worldly courage, shivering like an aspen 
leaf before this great adversary ; and I have seen the poor, contrite 
sinner smiling at the approach of the king of terrors, and triumph- 
ing over death and the grave.” — “ My friend," said I, “ a thought 
has just now occurred to me ; you shall pass the night with us, and, 
in the morning, I will leave it to your candor to declare, if you have 
or have not been compensated, for the devotion of your time and 
attention. There is in this. city, at the present moment, an intelli- 
gent man, in the humbler walks of life, who, I am informed, can 
relate, in a plain, sensible manner, and upon his own personal 
experience, a narrative of considerable interest, and which may 
serve to illustrate the power of the gospel in a trying hour. I think 
I can find him out, and persuade him to comply with my request.” 
— My friend consented, and I went forth to complete the arrange- 
ment. 

On my return, I informed my friend Kennedy, that I had bet n 
successful, and that Bill Atherton had promised to be with ue, at 
an early hour in the evening, and give us a narrative of the rircum- 
‘ stances to which I had referred. — “And pray, who is Bill 
Atherton!” inquired my wife and children. — “You will see for 
yourselves,” I replied, “ when he arrives. As I have already 
informed you, he is a man in the humbler walks of life. His dress 


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171 


and appearance may surprise you perhaps, and his manners may 
possibly partake of the roughness of the element, upon which he 
has been tossed for thirty years. He is a common sailor , and. that 
we may have the full benefit of his recital, we must put him com- 
pletely at his ease, by our unceremonious reception. We must 
treat him precisely as a sailor would like to be treated.” — 
“ Sha’n’t I get him some tobacco, father?” said my youngest boy. 
— “No, no, my little fellow,” I replied ; “we shall get on well 
enough without that.” 

The tea service had scarcely been removed, when Bill Atherton, 
punctual to his appointment, rang the door-bell, and was ushered 
into the parlor. He was a square-framed, thick-set, broad-shoul- 
dered man, with dark complexion and weather-beaten features. 
He seemed about five and fifty years old. — I welcomed him in the 
most cordial manner, and introduced him to my friend Kennedy, 
and the members of my family, while my elder boy handed him a 
chair. — “ You had better take off your great coat,” said my wife. 
“ It ’s my pea-jacket, ma’am,” said he, with a little embarrassment, 
as he seated himself, and began to twirl his thumbs. This lifttle 
incident and Bill Atherton’s peculiar tone of voice had well nigh 
upset the gravity of my children. It was decidedly the most 
sonorous guttural that I had ever heard. 

“You have been long acquainted with the sea,” said I. — 

‘ Rather an old salt, your honor,” he replied. “ And you have seen 
a great deal of the world,” I continued. — “’Most every corner 
on ’t, sir,” he rejoined. — “My friend, Mr. Kennedy, and myself, 
are very desirous of hearing an account of your voyage in the 
Volante.” — “ It ’s rather an ugly yarn to spin, that, your honor,” 
replied Bill Atherton, as he shook his head, and continued twirling 
his thumbs. “ I ’ve told that story over a number of times, and I 
never slept sound arter telling it yet.” — “ We are very unwilling 
to give you any trouble,” said I ; “ but we should esteem it a favor, 
if you would give us the narrative.” — Bill Atherton unbuttoned 
his pea-jacket, and taking half a handful of tobacco from his right 
cheek, to the astonishment of my wife and children deposited it 
carefully upon the corner of the white marble mantle, and, resuming 
his seat, recommenced the business of twirling his thumbs. After 
collecting his thoughts for some time, he scratched his head with 
his left hand, pulled up the waistband of his breeches with the right, 
and proceeded as follows : — 

“When I was first afore the mast, — quite a youngster, — I 
could reel off a story at no rate. My thoughts were bright enough 
(heiii But 1 ’m an oldish sort of a fellow now, and you. must moke 


172 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


allowance for a poor sailor, that’s had no laming.” — 
doubt,” said my wife, “ Mr. Atherton, that we shall be greatly 
interested in the story.” I perceived, however, that she had no 
little apprehension of a failure. Bill Atherton was as evidently 
cheered by my wife’s encouraging remark, as was the “ last 
minstrel,” by the fair words of the ladies of Branksome, and imme- 
diately resumed his narrative with increasing confidence. 

“ ’Twas an odd sort of a craft. I’d been used all my days 
to square-rigged vessels, ships and brigs, ye see. But an old 
messmate persuaded me to go aboard the steam-packet Volante, 
Captain Black, for Ch irleston. I ’d been home from sea over a 
month ; so I thought I ’d e’en take my chance, as it didn’t seem to 
be very easy to get a foreign vige, and I could n’t well afford to be 
landlubbering it about New York no longer. — When I first saw 
that sort o’ craft, it seemed to me the oddest thing in natur to go 
to sea in. Afore I shipped, I ’d never been aboard one on ’em in 
all my life ; and when we was a getting under way, I couldn’t, for 
the soul on me, help laughing right out. I ’d been used to loosen- 
ing fore-topsail, weighing anchor, and all that ; here there was 
nothing to be done, but to let go the ropes, and a sort of a black- 
smith with a leather apron, I thought he was, — they called him an 
ingineer, — pried upon a crow-bar, and away she went, like a 
stream ’o’ chalk. I didn’t see, at first, what there was for a sailor 
to do ; but the first mate soon set me to work a stowing away the 
bandboxes and trunks. I could hardly get along for the women folks 
and waiters. I should have felt more at home among bunt-lines 
and reef-tackles any day. Howsomever, I was in for it. ’Twas 
about half-past four o’clock, on a Saturday afternoon, the seventh 
day of October, we left the wharf in New York. ’Twas pleasant 
weather, and the wind about south-west, rather light. The pilot 
took us through Buttermilk Channel, and left us just arter we had 
got by Governor’s Island. We had a crew of forty-three, including 
the ingineers and firemen, and about ninety passengers. I never 
saw so many happy faces aboard ship, as when we first left the 
wharf. But they looked a little down in the mouth afore long, for 
in less than an hour arter we started, the Volante was fast aground 
on the Romer Shoal.” — “Was Captain Black at the wheel?” I 
inquired. — “ No, your honor,” replied Bill Atherton ; “ he wasn’t 
at the wheel, when she grounded. I never knew where he was 
at that time, until an old shipmate showed me Captain Black’s 
defence, about a week ago. He says he had gone below to get out 
the silver for supper, and to let the steward know how many there 
was aboard to set down. So, ye see, while they was a looking 


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173 


over the list and a counting out the spoons, the man at the wheel 
— somebody called him a ‘ beetle-head’ — run us upon the Romer as 
slick as a whistle. — When Captain Black come up, and saw the 
Volante heading off to the eastward, and headway nearly stopped, 
he cried out to the man at the wheel, ‘ Hard a-port !’ and the steers- 
man answered that the helm was hard a-port, but she wouldn’t 
mind it. By this time, ‘ Beetle-head,’ as they called him, had 
burrowed the boat pretty well into the shoal, for the ingines was 
kept a working all the time. The blacksmith — I mean the ingi- 
neer — asked Captain Black if he shouldn’t work her off, stam 
first, or, as an old salt would call it, boxhaul her. So Captain 
Black told him he should n’t. After he had pushed her pretty hard 
on, and found she wouldn’t go over, he altered his mind, and told 
the ingineer to take his own way, and back her off ; and we shifted 
the wood and chain-cable to the larboard side to give her a list. 
But the tide was ebb, and ’t would n’t do. So the passengers had 
time enough to take their supper on the Romer Shoal, and there 
was no need of any more hurry about the spoons ; for we let the 
fires burn out, and hung on for five hours. ’T was a peck o’ trouble 
from the very beginning. About this time, the third ingineer, in 
attempting to shut one of the cocks, scalded himself and two other 
hands pretty bad. About seven o’clock, we was boarded by a Sandy 
Hook pilot, and Captain Black axed him to stay by, till we ’d passed 
the Hook. 

“About half arter ten that night, when the tide had riz, the cap- 
tain ordered the square-sail hoisted, and laid aback, — that looked 
natural. — The ingines was set agoing, and off she went. Some 
folks thought we could have got off in the same way, when she first 
louched the shoal. The Volante was a monstrous long craft, about 
\ »vo hundred and twenty-five feet, and carried a terrible weight of 
machinery right a-midships ; and, when she struck so hard forward, 
’t was plain enough she ’d stick faster a-midships. How they ever 
expected to mend the matter, by shoving the heaviest part on her 
onto the shoal, I couldn’t see. We got off at last, however, as I 
told ye, past the Hook ; the pilot left us, and we proceeded on our 
vige. ’T was n’t thought the Volante had received any injury by 
running on the Romer, but for some reason or other there was con- 
siderable dissatisfaction aboard. Some was afraid the wind would 
rise ; some said the boat was on fire ; others thought she ’d get 
hogged on the shoal, and maybe spring a-leak. There was a good 
deal of swearing about it. Some cursed the captain for not being 
at the wheel, and others cursed the shoal for being where it was. 
Some turned in, and some kept up all night, and n ade themselves as 

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174 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


comfortable as they could, by smoking- and drinliug.” — ‘‘Was 
there a bar on board the Volante?” inquired my friend Kennedy. — 
'•* Sartin,” replied Bill Atherton, “ sartin, your honor ; pretty well 
stocked it was, I reckon. Why, ’t would be thought about as much 
irreglar for one o’ them are steam craft to leave port without plenty 
o’ liquor, as for an Indiaman to put to sea without a cable and 
anchor. There was among the passengers a couple of old sea-cap- 
tains, who seemed rather on easy from the time we got on the 
Romer ; ’specially one on ’em, a Captain Slater, I think they called 
him. He got out of his beth, and cautioned the man at the wheel 
not to run too near the land off Barnegat light. I don't s’pose he 
meant to interfere, but Captain Black did n't like him none the 
better for that. All went on pretty well till next day, Sunday, 
about noon, when the wind hauled to the north-east, and began to 
stiffen. I thought we should have a bit of a storm. About that 
time one of the great tea-kettles or boilers got out o kelter ; so we 
had to make steam with t’ other alone, and set the square-sail. To 
enable the blacksmith to mend the kettle. Captain Black put the 
boat afore the wind, and stood about south-west. Slater told him 
he ’d get on a lee shore, as sure as a gun, if he steered so. — Cap- 
tain Black got his back up, and told him he ’d manage the boat 
himself. About midnight we got both kettles agoing again. We 
kept heaving the lead, and soon shoaled into eleven fathoms. Four 
o’clock, Monday morning, the mate’s watch was called, and we 
shifted our course to south-south-east, until about seven o’clock, 
when we got a sight of land about fifty miles north of Cape Hatte- 
ras. The sea was rough enough, and the wind blew a gale. A 
good many of the passengers came up afore day, because the water 
had worked into their beths. Captain Slater got proper oneasy. 
Said he to Captain Black, ‘ I warned you of this last night ; you 
see you ’re on a lee shore, and it ’s all your fault. How will you 
get her off?’ — ‘ Why,’ said Captain Black, ‘ with her wheels, to be 
sure ; so long as the ingine will work, I ’ll keep her off any shore !’ 
— ‘ Well,’ said Slater, — and he looked pretty solemn, I tell ye, — 
‘well,’ said he, ‘we must make the best of it.’ — The sea raged 
like all possessed, and the wind blew a hurricane. Matters looked 
bad enough. The passengers got to be frightened, and the oldest 
salt aboard thought there was good reason for ’t. When a sea 
'^uck the Volante, you could see her bend and quiver from stem to 
starn. The panels of the ceiling began to drop out of their places. 
She rolled and pitched so bad all Monday, that ’t would have 
been impossible to cook a mouthful, if anybody could have mustered 
sufficient app# tite to eat it. Very few of the passengers had much 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


176 


desire for eating, I can tell ye. But I can’t say as much about 
drinking. They held on to that, some on ’em ; and the haider it 
blew, for a long while, the more of a thriving trade the bar-keeper 
had of it. Poor fellow ! he went to Davy’s locker ; and he ’d no 
time to calculate his profits unless ’twas in another world. 

“ Well, as I was a saying, the storm was a raging bad enough. 
’T was a perfect tempest. I never sailed over an uglier sea. Caji- 
tain Black ordered jib and foresail to be reefed, supposing he might 
need ’em. About nine o’clock on Monday morning, one of the 
ingineers told Captain Black that both boilers had gi’n out. He 
ordered the jib and foresail set, the reefs turned out, and the boat’s 
head to land, to beach her. It soon appeared to be the ingineer’s 
blunder ; the boilers had n’t gi’n out, but one on ’em had got out 
o’ kelter, jest as it did afore. The ingineer soon fixed it, and the 
captain then ordered jib and foresail taken in, and tried to work her 
off shore with the ingines. But, ye see, we ’d lost a bit by this 
manoeuvre, and soon found ourselves among the Wimble Shoals. 
Some of the passengers began to get the boats ready for launching ; 
but it seemed to me, that no boat could live in such a sea. In pass- 
ing the Wimble Shoals, we received the shock of three terrible 
heavy rollers on the larboard beam. They stove in our after-gang- 
way, and some of the state-room windows. We then proceeded to 
knock away some of the forward bulwarks, that the sea might have 
a fair breach through, for fear some of the seas might fill the deck 
and cabin. 

“ ’Twixt two and three o’clock in the arternoon, ’twas discov- 
ered that the boat had sprung a~leak. It soon got about among the 
passengers, and produced a great deal of confusion. Everybody, 
men, wom«Mi, and children, were asking all sorts of questions, that 
nobody could answer. We tried the ingine-pump, but the leak con- 
tinued to gain upon us. All hands were then set to bailing and 
pumping — passengers as well as crew, and without distinction of 
age or sex. Those, who were sick, forgot their feeble health, and 
fell to with the strongest. We had a large number of lady passen 
gers, and every one on ’em had a basin, or a pitcher, or a bucket, 
and worked for life. We was all on a footing then, your honor, — 
’t was no time to think of their fine clothes, or the rings on their 
fingers. Captain Slater, who seemed to be an able seaman, asked 
for a light, and went below with a Captain Dale, another passenger, 
to find the leak ; but they couldn’t find it, and it continued to gain 
upon us fast. 

“We all felt pretty bad ; night was coming on, and man’s help 
TOeined to be t miserable reed. About eight o’clock that night, tlie 


176 


THE LITE-PRESERVER. 


leak had risen so high as to put out the furnace fires. Stetm could 
do no more for us ; and it now seemed to be necessary to run the 
Volante ashore, as the only means of safety. When it was under- 
stood, that this was resolved on, the stoutest heart quailed. The 
poor mothers wept over their children, and husbands, brothers, and 
fathers, felt, no doubt, as though their hour of separation was at 
hand. There were some, who cursed and swore ; others seemed 
frantic ; some flew to the bar for liquor ; some went to prayers ; 
and others seemed stupefied. Among all this confusion I saw very 
little like composure in any part of the boat. There was a sick 
clergyman aboard, a Mr. Jones; he had his wife with him; they 
were going to Augusta. He was in his beth, and he never 
looked more calm, I reckon, in his pulpit, than he did that horrible 
night. A number were gathered round him, and after having a 
chapter read to him, he offered up a prayer, which, so far as I 
could judge from his features, seemed to lift up his soul above the 
tempest. 

“ Some time before this, the bar was closed. During the even- 
ing, a number of the passengers, who were in liquor at the time, 
and were resolved to have more, made a rush upon the bar, to break 
it open, and succeeded. There were some, who endeavored to pre- 
vail upon the bar-keeper to destroy his liquors; but he couldn’t 
make up his mind to such a dreadful sacrifice of his property. 
Poor fellow ! I ’ve told ye already, that he did n’t live to enjoy his 
gains. They then called the second mate, who laid about him with 
a heavy hand, and the contents of the demijohns, bottles, and kegs, 
were soon mixed with the salt water.” 

“Mr. Atherton,” said I, “it has been currently reported, that 
Captain Black was intoxicated. What is your opinion upon that 
point ?” — “ Please your honor,” said he, “ you can judge as well as 
I. I ’d a little rather not give any opinion about it. Captain Slater 
and ten other passengers have published a certificate that he was 
intoxicated. He says he wasn’t, and that he only drank two 
glasses of Port wine and water, and two of cordials. Captain 
Black has published the affidavits of six or seven of his crew to 
prove that he wasn’t intoxicated.” — “Had the captain any private 
store of liquors in his state-room, or was there any liquor upon 
deck?” inquired Mr. Kennedy. — “I don’t know that he had,” 
replied Bill Atherton. — “ There was a keg of spirit brought up for 
the firemen and the rest of the crew. I don’t know that the captain 
drank any on it. He says, as I have told you, that he drank noth- 
ing but Port wine and cordials.” — “Noah,” said Mr. Kennedy 
^ was drunken, after he became a husbandman, on the pure juice 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


177 


of the graps, on unenforced wine. If he had permitted a ban to be 
kept on board the ark, and had himself drunk Port wine and cor- 
dials, his navigation might not have been so successful as it was.” — - 
“Were the other captains, Slater and Dale, addicted to liquor!” 
said I. — “Captain Black, in his defence,” replied Bill Atherton, 
“stated, that Captain Dale was intoxicated; but nobody ever said 
anything of the sort about Captain Slater.” — “ You have said,” 
observed Mr. Kennedy, “ that Captain Slater and ten other passen- 
gers have published a statement, that Captain Black was intoxi- 
tjated. Was anything said about Captain Black’s intoxication dur- 
ing the voyage!” — “O yes, your honor,” replied Bill Atheiton. 
“I was a-going on to tell ye. We had set the square-sail, and 
’twas no sooner set than it split from foot to head ; so we hauled it 
down ; and as the fires were out, we made slow progress towards 
the shore, and you can have no idee of the misery on every counte- 
nance. Everything that could be torn up for lashing, was rent into 
strips, chiefly the blankets, and tied round the men «nd women, 
ready to lash, who still kept on bailing. Captain Black \>as then 
in the wheel-house. Captain Slater came up, and told him ne had 
come to take charge of the boat. ‘ What for!’ said Captain Black. 
— ‘ Because you are intoxicated,’ said Captain Slater. ‘ You ought 
to be ashamed of yourself. Clear out.’ ” — “And pray,” said Mr. 
Kennedy, “ what did he reply!” — “Why,” said Bill Atherton, 
“he looked up, and says he, ^Who says so?' — Captain Slater 
then told him Mr. Motley, the mate, said so ; and being called by 
Captain Bla^k, Motley said that the passengers said so. 1 ’ve heard 
Captain Slater say that Captain Black resisted a little at first, but 
finally gave up the command, and did not resume it : this. Captain 
Black denies in his defence. One thing is sartin, if we had not 
carried liquor, and had not had a bar aboard the Volante, we should 
have been spared all this dispute about who was drunk and who 
was n’t. 

“ The water was over the cabin floor. Some began to think of 
launching the boats. About eleven at night, all were obliged to 
leave the cabin, as the boat had settled so that her deck was nearly 
flush with the water. About this time, those on the forecastle 
shouted. Land! land! — But there was no land, — nothing but the 
roaring breakers to be seen right ahead. Just afore we struck, 
two of the passengers, with the assistance of some of the sailors, 
atteirpted to save their lives in one of the quarter boats. There 
came a sea, and swept it from the davits in a jiffy, and carried off 
one of the poor fellows, who was instantly swallowed up in the 
•urge. Mr. Motley, the mate, 'and several of the passengers, ten or 


178 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


iwelve of them, oegan to launch the long-b«)at. ’T was stark mad' 
ness, your honor ; we was right in with the breakers ; the long-boat 
was swamped in an instant, and the whole that were in her perished. 

“ It seemed every moment that we should strike among the 
breakers. They were close under our bows, and looked like the 
very jaws of death. ’T was a dreadful scene, — the moon broke 
through the clouds now and then, and gave us a clear view of the 
whole misery. The passengers, all looking for the means of safety, 
had gathered into groups. Here was a man and his wife ; theie a 
mother and her daughters ; in one place were gathered a whole 
family of six persons ; in another stood a solitary, unprotected 
female, who was returning home to her friends. 

“Just at this time, a young man, who had a life-preserver, had 
strapped it under his arms, and was congratulating himself upon 
his good fortune. Another, who was evidently intoxicated, and who 
was cursing and swearing, told him he would n’t give a pinch of 
snuff for his life-preserver, and said he wouldn’t take it for his own, 
and boasted that he had prepared himself for the worst, long before, 
and had a much better life-preserver in his own stomach, (meaning 
his grog.) At this moment, Mr. Jones, the clergyman, that I told 
ye of, drew near the spot. Though very feeble, he was supporting 
his wife as well as he was able. He wore the same calm expression 
that I had noticed before. We were then just in the breakers, and 
some one exclaimed, ‘ She ’ll strike in a moment, — there ’s no 
hope!’ — when the clergyman replied, ^ He that trusts in Jesus is 
safe, even amid the perils of the sea ” 

Bill Atherton paused in his narrative, and my friend Kennedy 
wiped the tear from his eye. “ This holy man,” said he, after a 
short interval, “ had indeed a life-preserver, sufficient to bear him 
safely over the bitter waters of this painful life to the confines of 
eternity and the bosom of his God.” 

W'e sat in silence for some time. Perceiving that we expected 
to hear the residue of this distressing narration, Bill Atherton shook 
his head, and recommenced as follows: — “It’s hard telling the 
rest on ’t, your honor. — Let ’s make it as short as we can. — She 
struck at last, and, immediately heeling to windward, presented her 
exposed deck to the force of the winds and waves. This was indeed 
a moment of unspeakable horror. The first great surge that came 
combing over us, swept off its victims, how many I cannot say ; but 
[ noticed, when it had passed over, that the good clergyman and his 
wife were both gone.” — “ Gone to the mansions of the just made 

perfect,” exclaimed my friend Kennedy, with evident emotion. 

No doubt on ’t, your honor,” said honest Bill Atherton. — “ Many 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


179 


of the passengers, and particularly the ladies, rushed forwaid after 
the first wave had passed over us. — Then there came another, and 
once more swept the deck ; the shrieks of the victims were louder 
than the storm or the crashing timbers of the Volante. Wlien that 
wave had passed, I looked round with astonishment and horror, as I 
marked the monstrous havoc it had made. There were few remain- 
ing then. — I was looking towards the next coming wave. I saw 
it strip a baby from its mother’s arms, — the poor woman sprang 
from the deck with a loud shriek, and leaped into the foam, after 
the child. Every wave did its work ; and, in the midst of all this 
scene of horror, one of the passengers, in the vain hope of calling 
assistance, kept on tolling the steam-boat bell. 

“ A number of the survivors had taken shelter on the lee-side of 
the boat, in the passage, that leads from the after to the forward 
deck. They were chiefly ladies and children, and some few gen- 
tlemen, who had the charge of them. There were thirty or forty 
collected in this passage. Escape seemed impossible. The decks 
were swept of everything. The bulwarks were all gone, smack 
smooth. Among those in this passage was a gentleman, supporting 
his wife on one arm, and one of his daughters on the other. A boy, 
about twelve years old, stood by his side, holding upon his father’s 
garments. — ‘Father,’ said he, ‘dear father, you will save me, 
won’t you? — you can swim to the shore with me, can’t you, 
father?’ — They were all lost. — I got ashore myself, with a few 
others, on the topgallant forecastle. Of the passengers, twenty 
only were saved, and seventy perished in the deep. 

“ During the raging of the tempest, and after the Volante had 
struck among the breakers, one of the lady passengers, who had 
been swept overboard, was seen clinging to the side, and imploring 
for help. Two gentlemen, at great hazard, ventured to her assis- 
tance, and with no little exertion drew her on board, and lashed her 
to a piece of timber. She was one of the only two females, who 
escaped with their lives. 

“ With the assistance of the people of the island, we buried such 
of the dead, as were cast upon the shore ; and those of us, whom 
the tempest had spared, as soon as it was in our power, turned 
away from the scene of our late disaster, and bent our steps in the 
direction of our several homes.” 

“ It is an awful and a most impressive lesson,” said Mr. Kennedy, 
“and, whether this disaster be attributable to the unseaworthiness 
of the vessel, or the drunkenness of the captain, or the fury of the 
storm, or to all these causes combined, it presents before us a most 
aflfecting picture of the vanity of all earthly hopes. Here were 


180 


THE LIFE-PRESERVER. 


ninety human beings counting with all confidence upon even sea** 
and prosperous gales ; anticipating the speedy completion of their 
schemes of pleasure or of profit, — some calculating, with unerring 
certainty, upon the fortunate consummation of their commercial 
projects, — others elate with the delightful assurance of ere long 
embracing their friends, their parents, their wives, their husbands. 
How solemn, how awful the contrast ! The angel of death was 
even then the companion of their melancholy way, ready, at the 
appointed moment, to whisper in their ears, — There is no work, 
nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou 
goest. Let us, then, be wise, while we may profit by our wisdom. 
We are all upon the voyage of life, and shall, ere long, enter upon 
the broad waters of eternity. — Let each one gird on the only life- 
preserver, which can sustain him in every trial, — the whole annor 
of righteousness upon the right hand and upon the left, remember- 
ing that HE WHO TRUSTS IN JeSUS IS SAFE EVEN AMID TEE PERILM 
or THE SEA !” 


AS A MEDICINE 


NoUiinr, thert ef its entii'e annihilation, can be more acceptable to the enemies of the temperaass 
'eforni, than the inconsistencies of its friends. The opponents of this righteous enterprise are 
ore»er on the alert, to detect the slightest deviation, on the part of its advocates, in any particular, 
noweyer insi^ilicant it may be. The rum-dealer, who carries his e/tpionagt to the very cellars of 
the friends of temperance, should he there discover a solitary bottle of light French wine, ccnciudea 
its proprietor to be a hypocritical partaker of the means of drunkenness, as surely as the over- 
tealuus rinuoso infers a mastodon from every grinder that he finds. 

We object not to a good word, in behalf of temperance, from the wine-drinker himself; though it 
unquestionably acquires additional influence, when uttered by a cold-water man. No spnarent 
inconsistency has been more frequently trumpeted abroad, by the enemies, and occasionally "by the 
friends of temperance, than the conduct of the rich, who call upon the poor to give up their cheap 
and vu.gxj ir.ebriants, while they themselves refuse to relinquish their wine. It is high time that 
this m&tUi should be correctly stated. It is certainly desirable that rich and poor should surren- 
der their wine, and every other intoxicating material, upon those altars of domestic repose and 
nation.il concord, whose foundations would receive additional support from such a surrender zi this. 
Kevertiieless, w> perceive nothing more of inconsistency in the conduct of the rich man, who drinks 
wine, and yet calls upon the poor man to relinquish his rum, thin in the conduct of the poor man, 
who resolves to be drunk with rum, until the rich man relinquishes his wine. 

Does the poor man say that wine is as injurious for the rich man, as rum is for himself? Be it so. 
The poor man's language is this — You and I are bent upon destruction. Total abstinence will 
relieve us both. 1 have no interest in you. On the whole, I had a little rather you should destroy 
yourself than not, for I should be pleased to establish my theory, that wine will kill. Nevertheless, 
1 am resolved to destroy myself with rum, unless you give up your wine I However extraordinary 
it may appear, for one, who is poisoning himself w. 'i arsenic, gravely to advise his neighbor to 
abstain from the use of Prussic acid, his advice is not the less excellent on that account. 

It cannot be denied, however, that all those advocates of temperance are destined to labor to very 
little purpose, who are not, in faith and practice, TOTAL-ABSTINENCE MEN. 

How far even the medicinal employment of any alcoholic liquor may hereafter be permitted to 
form an exception, from this practice of total abstinence, is matter for grave inquiry. Medical men 
— we speak of those who are members of total- abstinence societies — differ in their opinions upon 
this important point. In the estimation of many persons, certain kinds of intoxicating liquor are 
among the most agreeable materials in the pharmacopoeia ; individuals, who would call in the doctor 
in many other cases, and for the administration of most other medicines, appear to feel themselves 
abundantly competent, on the strength of their previous practice, to prescribe for themselves. We 
are confident, that no unfrequenl occasion for reproach has arisen from this cause, amoug the 
professing friends of temperance. 


It was an observation of my grandmother, that nothing is more 
wonderful than that we wonder at all. Few things are more diffi- 
cult than to wonder by rule. So jealous are certain individuals of 
their reputation for taste and knowledge, that they would sooner be 
detected in the very act of cutting their cousins of the whole blood 
for the heinous crime of honest poverty, than in any natural expres- 
sion of wonder or delight. Nil admirari is their maxim forever. 
They have dealt, or would be thought to have dealt, so entirely 
willi the sources of superlative delight, that the bare possibility of 
comparative enjoyment is abolished altogether from their code of 
sensations. No dancing is entitled to commendation, for they have 
witnessed the pirouettes of Madame Vestris — no performance on 
the violin, for they have listened to Paganini. 

These reflections were produced, w'hile passing, of late, through 
the highest hills of New England. At evtsry house among these 


182 


AS A MEDICINE. 


mountains, where the visitor may happen to repose, an album is 
exhibited before him, in which, if it suit his fancy, he may enrol 
his name, his resideno3, his destination, his achievements among the 
hills, and, if he see fit, some grateful commendation of his host and 
hostess. Therein he may also indulge his humor, whether moral, 
political, or geological. Upon one of these caravansary records, I 
was particularly struck by the remarks of a Gallican coxcomb, in 
his native language. He had visited the Alps, forsooth, and en- 
rolled his autograph in the album of the grand Chartreuse. He had 
^en upon the mountains of Switzerland, and could discover nothing 
s^rcrthy of admiration among the White Hills of New Hampshire. 
1 turned away from this paltry ebullition of conceit ; and, as I cast 
my admiring gaze upon the cloven rock, the gorge of these stupen- 
dous hills, which furnishes the only defile for the traveller, 1 
inwardly rejoiced, that I had not neutralized my power to enjoy the 
majestic scene around me — that, as yet, I had not visited the 
mountains of Switzerland. The majestic hills of the Granite State 
must ever continue an object of deep and solemn interest to him, 
who delights to contemplate the wonders of creation. Here they 
stand, just as they stood, when baptized by their aboriginal proprie- 
tors, of yore — the Tuckaway, the Chocorua, the Ossapy, and the 
Kyarsarge ; the Mooshelock, the Sunapee, and the Monadnock ; 
and last and loftiest of them all. the Agiocochook : — truly, as we 
are informed by Sterne, there is something in a name. — Agioco- 
chook was the appellation, bestowed by the red man, upon that 
portion of these hills, which is now designated as the White Moun- 
tains. In olden time, when, according to an ancient tradition of the 
red men, their country was overwhelmed with water, the highest 
pinnacle, the summit of Mount Washington, alone remained uncov- 
ered above the flood. Thither Powaw and his wife, who had been 
forewarned of the coming deluge, fled for safety ; and by them the 
whole country was peopled anew. Such was the legend of the 
Indian. But the red man’s Gilboa, those high places of safety, 
which knew him of old, shall know him no more. 

Upon a lovely morning in the month of August, we had taken 
leave of the little village of Franconia. We were slowly ascending 
ihose long hills, over which the traveller must pass, on his way to 
that remarkable notch or defile, which borrows its name from this 
busy hamlet, whose clamorous trip-hammers have long since broken 
forever the silence of these mountains, and scared the hill-fox from 
his covert. The sun had risen with uncommon splendor; and, to 
us who looked upon the surrounding scene with Nelherlanders^ 
there appeared not ,:,he slightest pfrospect of unfavoraWa 


AS A MEDICINE. 


183 


weather. Masses vapor lay low at the bases of the monTita>n« 
before us ; but the searching rays of a solstitial sun would not 
them long to lie in Idleness there. Light, flocky clouds were soon 
perceived, almost of a silvery brightness, flitting along the side« 
of the mountains. Ere long they assumed a darker hue, an^l 
appeared to be forming in closer column. Here and there, among 
the distant gorges of the hills, the rapid motion of these rolling 
clouds indicated that the winds were at work, driving the sluggish 
vapors forth from the defiles and intervals. All, however, was calm 
and delightfully serene in our immediate vicinity. The summits of 
the mountains were still high above the clouds, and in full enjoy- 
ment, like ourselves, of the morning sun. 

When I was a boy, I conceived a high respect for a cock in iny 
father’s barn-yard. He was called, most deservedly withal, the 
pro'phet. Often, when doubtful of the propriety of carrying my' 
plans of childish pleasure into execution, by reason of the ambigu- 
ous aspect of the morning, I have sought out the prophet; and, when 
he mounted the fence, clapped his golden wings, and sent forth his 
clarion note, it was perfectly oracular. I would not have believed 
Pythia upon her tripod to the contrary. He never deceived me ; 
and, when, after he had served his day and generation, the poor 
fellow came at last to be boiled, I ate no dinner upon that memo- 
rable day, though I had my choice of a leg or a wing of the prophet. 
In our lowland chanticleers I have great confidence ; but in the 
cocks of the mountains I shall never more put my trust. Such 
crowing and clarionetting I have seldom heard, as filled the air upon 
the morning to which I refer; and, so far as I understand the Gallic 
language, I am confident there was a decided majority in favor of 
fair weather. 

“ I think we shall not have any rain to-day,” said I, addressing 
an old mountaineer, whom we met among the hills, with his rifle 
on his shoulder. “ Sha’n’t we though?” said the old man; “I 
guess as how ye’re from below a purty considerable p:€ce. Ye 
baant so well read in the signs hereabouts, as them on us that ’s 
been up in these here craggy places for seventy years, egg and bird. 
There’s my almniok,” continued he, pointing to the mountains ; 
“ when ye see the scud thickening up alongside o' the mountains arter 
that are fashion, ye ’ll have a storm and a tougher, see if ye don’t. 
Ii ’ll be a ’tarnal wet day, I tell ye. It ’s a fixin for a raal pelier.” 

Ere long the old soothsayer’s prediction began to be fulfilled. 
Tne mist became a drizzling rain, with occasionally a few large, 
heavy drops intermixed. The deep, dark clouds had completely 
hoodwinked the sun, whose rays, but a short time before, had 


AS A MEDICINE. 


the summits of the highest hills. The muttering thunder, 
M i distance, admonished us to press forward with all convenient 
Ufteerl. Oiir party had already reconciled themselves to their iL 
ffnune, in losing the present opportunity of beholding one of the 
ci'ief wonders of the Franconia Notch ; they were therefore most 
aureeably surprised, when, upon casting their eyes upward, in 
obedience to the direction upon the guide-board at the road-side, 
they obtained, though for a brief space, a view, full and distinct, of 
the “old man of the mountain.” The clouds were, for a few 
moments, as the mariner would say, clewed up, and this extraordi- 
nary freak of nature was plainly presented to our view, beetling 
forth over the very summit of the bald and almost perpendicular 
rock. Praxiteles could not have done it better, if he had been 
employed to perpetuate, upon the pinnacle of the Rocky Mountain, 
the chief of those giants, who piled Pelion upon Ossa. 

The flashes of lightning became more frequent and vivid ; and the 
peals of thunder, rattling around, above, and beneath us, and rever- 
berating from mountain to mountain, warned us to be gone. So 
we bade adieu to the defile, and left the “old man,” in his glory. 

It was in truth a most pitiless storm. Thunder, lightning, wind, 
and rain, like angry gamesters, were playing at all-fours among the 
hills. Our carriage, nevertheless, was perfectly dry within, and 
we, the inmates, were thoroughly protected from the rain ; but 
our coachman poor fellow, was drenched to the skin. It was an 
occasion, upon which a peevish and querulous Jehu might have 
displayed his preeminent qualities to perfection, and have become as 
pestilent as any heretic. — “A tremendous storm, Thomas,” said I, 
having lowered the front window half an inch, that I might be 
heard. “A fine rain, indaad, sir, it is,” he replied, “very much 
naaded.” — St. Thomas Aquinas, thought I, was a fool, compared 
with such a philosopher as this. Shortly after, he struck up a kind 
of lullaby measure, of which we caught only the chorus : 

“ I ’m trying to plase ye ; 

Why can’t ye be aisy ?” 

1 was so much pleased with this evidence of his good temper, that I 
opened the window again, to inquire if he expected to lay the tem- 
pest. “It’s jist that, your honor,” said he; “ saft wards tarns 
away wrath, sir.” 

The rage of the elements became, at length, too mighty to be 
Dome in the open field ; and we looked earnestly ahead, at every 
turn of the road, for some place of refuge. Our eyes were at last 
regaled by the appeaxance of a litUe sign at the road-side. Blown 


AS A MEDICINE. 


isr> 

almost horizontally by the driving- wind, it had well-nigh essaped 
our observation. “ Sowl o' me, if it is n't the 'otel,” cried T 
“ what there is o’ it.” We were soon certified, by tlie allilOiai 
illegible characters upon the sign, that it was even so. The brute 
has the best of it, thought I, as I glanced at the common advenise- 
ment, Enter lainment for man and beast f measuring at the same 
moment with my eye the dimensions of a wretched shanty, whose 
exterior was rather unattractive. The door-way appeared to be 
guarded by a janitor, some seventy winters old, whose dress may be 
easily described, as it consisted of two pieces only — a pair of ragged 
breeches and a dirty shirt. It was the last day of the week, and his 
chin displayed the entire hebdomadal crop of hair, as gray and 
grizzly as a badger’s. He stood, with his legs astride and his arms 
akimbo, smoking his pipe. We drew up before the door, or rather 
before the port-hole, of this miserable apology for a public house. 
“How far is it,” I inquired, “to the next tavern?” “Thirteen 
miles,” replied this interesting Caliban, replacing his pipe as soon 
as he had spoken. “Thirteen miles!” I exclaimed with astonish- 
ment. — “ Yes, thirteen miles and a quarter, to a link,” he replied ; 
“ I chained it myself, twenty years ago, and I guess it haant got no 
shorter.” — “Thomas,” said I, “what shall we do?” — “A mar- 
ciful mon, your honor, is marciful to his baast,” said he ; “ and it ’s 
myself that ’s been thinking, that a couple o’ packs of oots pit 
anunder the skins o’ they poor crathurs here would be a great 
saving o’ the lash, your honor.” — “ Will you call the landlord?” 
said I to the man who had answered my first inquiries. “ I s’pose 
I ’m the landlord,” he replied. “ Well, sir,” I rejoined, “ can you 
let my horses have a couple of pecks of oats?” — “ Yes, s’pose I 
can,” he replied. — “And can you give us a shelter from the 
storm?” I inquired. — “Yes, s'pose I can,” was the response. 
Nothing could be more ur propitious, and even surly, than the man- 
ner of mine host, who ap peared, in word and action, rough as an 
artichoke and vu gar as dirt. I ushered my family into the first 
apartment, which appeared, as there were two or three kegs upon 
tap, to be the drawing-room^ and the stronghold, as we inferred 
from the effluvia, of rum and tobacco. From this apartment we 
were speedily driven, by the arrival of other travellers, who had 
been compelled, like ourselves, to seek any port in a storm. We 
now retreated to an inner room, less capacious, but evidently of 
higher pretensions, in which, notwithstanding the rain was, here 
and there, admitted through the walls, we were somewhat more 
comfortable than before. A crockery parrot, without a head, 
VOL. II. IS"** 


AS A MEDICLNE. 


ISO 

ydoined the mantel, and two peacock-feathers surmounted a broken 
i«jokir)jr-glass. 

The increasing clamor in the adjoining room soon advised us of 
the arrival of additional company. Prompted by curiosity, I left my 
family in the boudoir^ and returned to the drawing-room. There were 
nearly twenty persons assembled, the majority of whom t^ere driven 
together by the storm. ‘The innholder’s good humor appeared to be 
completely restored. He seemed the very lord of misrule. As I 
entered, the rude and boisterous laughter, which literally shook 
the apartment, partially subsided. The sudden introduction of a 
stranger produced some slight effect upon the assembly. 1 ap- 
proached the window, and looked out upon the storm, and the con- 
versation which my presence had interrupted, was speedily renewed. 
I endeavored, without attracting particular observation, to recon- 
noitre the group around me. Two sturdy mountaineers were 
seated upon a bed with two of the gentler sex beside them, appar- 
ently their wives, smoking their pipes. Nature’s coarsest mould 
could not have elaborated four less attractive specimens of her handi- 
work. A man of short stature and middle age occupied a three- 
legged stool in the centre of the room. His legs were dressed in 
leather galligaskins, his coat was of greasy fustian, not precisely of 
that description denominated thunder and lightning, in which Moses 
Primrose was arrayed for the fair — this, when new, had approached 
more closely to fire and brimstone. The cut of it was somewhat 
peculiar, being such, as, in the nomenclature of a lady’s wardrobe, 
is called a long-short. He wore a hat with a prodigious circumfer- 
ence of brim, so peculiarly slouched on one side as to enable the 
wearer, by twirling it the quarter of a circle, to hide as much of his 
face as he might be unwilling to expose. He wore an enormous 
pair of green goggles, with lateral eye-glasses ; and, in addition to 
these, a pair of ordinary spectacles upon his forehead, to be used as 
occasion might require. Upon his right and left hand were a cou- 
ple of strong wooden cases, furnished with leather shoulder-straps. 
From all these circumstances, I conjectured that he was one of 
those locomotive merchants, styled hawkers., or pedlers. In one cor- 
ner of the apartment was a grave personage, some fifty years of 
age, decently dressed in dark apparel, and who appeared desirous 
,of shrinking as completely as possible from the scene around him. 
He sat twirling his thumbs, with his eyes closed, and his head 
reclined backward against the wall. My attention was particularly 
attracted by an elderly couple, who occupied a corner of the entry, 
or porch, leading to the room, in which we were assembled. They 
bad, in their youth, as I afterwards ascertained, taken each other 


AS A MEDICINE. 


187 


for better or worse, for richer or poorer ; and, if marriage be a lot- 
tery, it was evident from a single glance, that each of these adven- 
turers had drawn a blank. They had been driven hither, like the 
rest of us, for shelter from the storm ; and appeared to occupy their 
seals upon the entry floor, with a full consciousness of their inferi- 
ority in point of caste. I could perceive no important diflference, 
however, in this particular, between the miserable brace of wedded 
mendicants before me and several of those, by whom I was sur- 
rounded, saving the manifest inability of the former to pay for 
any more liquor. Aristocracy, an exotic nowhere, will flourish, 
like the cactus, even among the rocks, and with very little irriga- 
tion. It is not easy, thought I, to find a more remarkable example 
than the one before me of a distinction, where no essential diflference 
exists, unless, perhaps, among the Pouliats of India, who, notwith- 
standing the extreme degradation of their polluted caste has cut 
them off from all direct communication with the rest of man- 
kind, compel the Pouliches, a still more degraded race of human 
beings, to flee from among them and abide in trees and caverns 
More wretched objects I have seldom seen than this miserable cou 
pie. It would be difficult to find a more plausible reason for their 
continued connection than that, which lies in the ancient proverb — 
Misery loves company. They were manifestly the victims of in- 
temperance — the victims of the liquor-seller. In all probability, 
neither of them had undergone a thorough ablution since the revolu- 
tionary war. By some, however, this may not be accounted a very 
particular mark of opprobious distinction. Their natural skin was 
as effectually concealed by dirt, as by the many-colored rags which 
hung loosely about them. An old wallet, which the man had 
carried on his shoulder, doubtless contained their whole estate, real, 
personal, and mixed. There were no other persons, among this 
motley group, of sufficient interest to attract my particular attention, 
excepting a very corpulent woman, evidently over fifty years of age, 
who used a crutch, and continually complained of the oppressive 
heat of the apartment. 

The vulgar merriment, which prevailed, at the moment of my 
entrance, appeared to have been occasioned, by a succession of gibes 
and jeers, in which several members of this respectable assembly 
were indulging themselves, at the expense of the pedler. He was 
a. shrewd, intelligent Irishman ; and had been, as I gathered from 
the observations of the several speakers, an itinerant trafl[icker over 
the mountains for many years. 

“ What, in the name o’ natur, have ye got in your trunks this 
titrC; Marphy? Do let a body know,” said an enormously corpu- 


1S8 


AS A MEDICINE. 


lent man in a butcher’s frock. — “ Plase ye, Mr. Slaug-hter,’ 
replied the Irish pedler, “ na moor nor a few thrifles.” — “ Tritles, 
eh,” cried one of the two male personages who were seated upon 
the bed ; “ a pack of confounded essences and glass jinkumbobs for 
the women’s noses and ears, to gull our wives, I 'll bate a dollar.” 

— “And like as not,” exclaimed a red-faced Jezebel, with scarlet 
ribands to match, who sat by his side, and whose voice wonder- 
fully resembled the sound of a steam-whistle — “ like as not he ’s got 
essences for their husbands’ throats. I would n’t say nothing about 
gulling, if I was you, Atherton.” — “ Haw, haw, haw !” cried the 
butcher, slapping his thigh, with the flat of a hand as big as a leg 
of mutton souffle; “ haw, haw, haw! that are ’s complete ; you ’ve 
got it this time, Atherton, that are a fac.” — Atherton, and his 
helpmate. were silent, but looked unutterable things at each other. 

“Come, Marphy,” said the butcher, “don’t he so tarnal shy; 
open your chists and let ’s see your wares.” — “ Plase your honor,” 
cried the pedler, “ Ise walked, or rin rather, for the last foor miles 
wid my pack on my shouthers, and it ’s na to be dooted the ongra- 
dients are pit in disarder.” — “ That are ’s all humbug,” rejoined 
Slaughter ; “ you ’re a marchant ; what ’s a possessing on ye, man, 
that ye won’t show your plunder?” — “It’s mysilf,” replied the 
pedler, “that wull be excused, if ye plase, sir; beside, daar Mr. 
Slaughter,” continued he, in an under tone, “there’s times and 
saasons for ivery kind o’ a thing, as St. Patrick said.” — “ I don’t 
believe,” cried the butcher, “ but what you ’ve got so'thin or other 
what ’s counterband.” — “ Och, Mr. Slaughter,” exclaimed the poor 
fellow, “ it ’s not the like o’ me that wull be after doing that same. 
It’s maar thrifles that’s in my little bit chist.” — “Your little bit 
chist with a vengeance!” cried the butcher; “ why, one o’ these 
here things, if ’t was only o’ the right shape, would be big enough 
for an alderman’s powdering tub — little bit chist d’ ye call it? why, 
1 tell ye one on ’em ’s big enough to hold half the goods stole up in 
our mountains for six months.” — The pedler’s Irish blood was evi- 
dently roused by the imputation contained in this remark. — “ Mr. 
Slaughter,” said he, “ ye ’ll jist be plased to be a leetle moor o’ a 
jontleman.” — “Marphy,” exclaimed the butcher, in a voice half 
choked with passion, at the same time clinching his fist, and 
assuming the attitude of a butcher militant, “ d’ ye say I ai.’t a 
gentleman?” — “ My father’s son hiver sed the like o’ that, Mr* 
Slaughter,” replied the pedler ; “ I only requisted ye, if it was par- 
fictly convanient, to be a leetle bit moor o’ a jontleman nor ye was.” 

— “ Marphy ’s cunniner than you thinks for. Slaughter,” said 
one of the by-standers ; “he an’t to be cotch’d no time o’ day : 


AS A MEDICINE. 


1S9 


ion’t ye see he ’s got his eyes all about him.” — This little pleas- 
antry, alluding to the unusual number of glasses abv>ut the pedler’s 
eyes, put the whole assembly into good humor, .he belligerents 
excepted. — “Eyes all about him!” said the butcher; “yes, he 
looks like a beetle that sees best in the night.” — “ It s na proof o’ 
your ceveelity,” n'plied the pedler, “ to be comparing a paceable 
thrader to a baatle. Wud it be the dacent thing for anybuddy to be 
after comparing yoursilf to two bushels o’ your own sassinger maat 
crammed into a one-bushel bag? You'll niver pit Brian Marphy 
up to the making sich an ondacent comparison as that same.” — N* 
one appeared to enjoy this joke at the butcher's expense, so highly 
as Atherton. He returned the butcher's haw, haw, upon a former 
.occasion, with compound interest. 

Slaughter’s temper gave way before the peals of laughter raised 
at his expense. “ There,” said he, administering a tremendous 
kick with his cowhide boot upon the pedler's little bit chist, as ho 
was pleased to call it — “ there, I ’ll sarve ye jist arter that are 
fashin, if ye don’t keep your red rag between your teeth.” A 
crash within and the immediate issue of some liquid from one of the 
pedler’s boxes, apparently, from the strong odor, no other than 
Cogniac, too manifestly proved, that the butcher had inflicted a 
mortal wound. “ Whoosh ! saa what is ’t ye ’ve done,” cried the 
pedler. “ Ye ’ll pay for this, mon. Is this the right sort o’ thrate- 
ment for a poor felly what ’s gitting an honest living, to ruin him this 
a way buddy and spirit?” — “ Spirit it is, sure enough,” cried the 
butcher, who was half ashamed of his conduct, and quite willing to 
shift the burden upon poor Murphy’s shoulders — “it’s giniwine 
brandy, as true as you ’re alive ; and this here feller ’s been hawk- 
ing it about, for ever so long, among the mountains, and selling on 
it without a mite of a license.” — “ S’pose’n he has,” said Ath- 
erton, “it don’t foller, by three chalks, that everybody’s a right 
to stick himself up for judge and jury.” — “ What bisness is ’t to 
you?” cried Slaughter. — “None in peticklar,” replied Atherton, 
“ only I think you needn’t up foot and gin sich a jab agin the man’s 
chist. You needn’t ha come anist it. I*was on the jury last Octo- 
ber court, and there was pooty much sich a case ; don’t reckon 
there was any ditfer ; and Squire Pronk said ’t was clean trover. I 
guess you’ll have to settle it.” — “Well, Mr. Atherton, may be 
BO,” said Slaughter, putting his arms akimbo ; “ and, if I ’ve got 
U) shell out, it ’ll be very convenient to have you settle your bill o’ 
lurat, that ’s been due two years come next thanksgiving." I’oor 
Atherton hung his head, and said no more. One or two of the com- 
pany expressed their opinions, that the butcher was. loo hard upon 


190 


AS A MEDICINE. 


fhe pedler. “ An’t so clear as to that,” said the landlord, who^e 
progress round the room with a dirty black bottle, from which he had 
been serving the guests with whiskey, had been impeded for a few 
minutes, by the occurrence which I have related. “ An‘t so cleat as 
to that,” said he, “ by no manner o’ means — no great opinion of a 
inan that sells liquor without a license. It ’s no better than smug- 
gling, no. not a bit. What ’s agoing to come of our riglar bisnissl 
The timprance folks has e’enamost done for ’t a’ready. Why, my 
patience ! I us’d to sell jist about four times as much as I sells now, 
and I raaly don't know what ’s agoing to come on us, if these here 
folks is agoing to run away with the rest of the bisniss in sich an 
underhand w^ay.” 

During this interesting colloquy, the pedler was occupied in 
unpacking and examining his wares and merchandise, removing 
the fragments of a case-bottle, and separating his ribands, laces, 
jewelry, essences, and a variety of other articles, too numerous for 
an advertisement. The females, without a single exception, actu- 
ated either by curiosity or benevolence, had come to the rescue ; and 
no one appeared more active upon the present occasion, than the 
corpulent dame with the crutch, to whom 1 have already alluded. 
— “Jist look for yoursilves, leddies,” cried the pedler, “jist look 
wid your eyes, and saa the ill wark that he’s done for me.” — 
“ What ’s this 1 it ’s all of a sop, as true as I ’m alive,” exclaimed 
one of the group. — “ And sure enough what is it, it is, isn’t itl 
sowl o’ me and by the powers if it is n’t a most valleyble package 
that same. It contains moor nor a hunder dollars’ warth o’ mar- 
chandise, coort plaster, pooders for the taath, and a daal o’ the dili 
kitest pomaty in the warld, and other chaice articles into the bargain, 
ivery one o’ em ruinated and totally perditionized entirely. Plase 
to look to it for yoursilves, as ye ’ll all be called to the coort for your 
tistimony.” — “It’s a burnin shame, I vum,” said Atherton’s 
wife, as her eye glanced upon a parcel of tawdry, shop-worn jew- 
elry ; “ if them are isn’t the beautifullest pair o' bobs I ever sot eyes 
on, in all my born days ; won’t it spoil ’em to be soaked in this here 
sperret, Mr. Marphyl” — “ Purty considerably entirely,” cried the 
pedler. “ Daar me,” he continued, shaking his head and wringing 
his hands, in the most lugubrious manner — “daar me, what ’ll 
become o^ m’ silf ! The most o’ all these articles is bought upon a 
cridit, and it ’s daar enough they cost, ye may depind.” — “ These 
jailer ribbins is dished complete,” said another of the pedler’s com- 
forters, as she drew forth a number of rolls thoroughly saturated with 
brandy. — “ How could you do sich a thing, Mr. Slaughter? You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said the portly woman with the 


AS A MEDICINE. 


191 


crntcfi ; “ only see that are good brandy all over the floor , was it 
rual foreign, Mr. Marphy?” — “Bliss your swaat soul, Mrs. 
Mfr( lohblcr, indaad an it was, ivery dhrap o’ it. It ’s the virry hist 
o’ Cogniac ; the same,” continued he, in a lower voice, “ that 
ye ’ve had o’ me for mony yaars. I had it dirict fro’ one of the 
twalve respictable liquor-sellers o’ the city o’ Boston, that pit his 
name to the report agin the shtapping o’ the traffic. It ’s the laal 
crathur, watered discrately by nobuddy but the importer, jist to des- 
tray the outlandish twang that it has, ye know, whin it first comes 
ow’er.” — “ See there,” cried another, “them little books, at the 
bottom o’ the box, is ruined, an’t they? What be they, Mr. Mar 
phy 1” — “ Thrue for you, they are claan done for,” said the ped- 
ler ; “ they are Timperance Tales, to be sure, and they ’re the only 
things in the whole colliction, that isn’t greatly the warse for the 
liquor ; for, after a little bit drying, they ’ll raad jist as they had 
niver been ruined.” 

There certainly was no slight resemblance between this open- 
ing of the little bit chist of Murpby the pedler, and the opening of 
the box of Pandora. These Temperance Tales reposed securely 
at the bottom of the pedler’s box, like hope, under a multitude of 
ills. 

During this inquisition into the mutilated state of the pedler’s 
possessions, the butcher had been engaged in a private conference 
with two or three of his associates, who had undoubtedly advised 
him to make peace with his adversary as soon as possible. “ Ye ’d 
better settle the hash with him. Slaughter,” said one of his coun- 
sellors, “or he’ll stick t’ye like a pitch-plaster, you see if he 
don’t.” — Under this influence, the butcher moved towards the 
door, and, calling the pedler by name, beckoned him to follow. — 
“ And pray, Mr. Slaughter,” said the wary Irishman, in the wailing 
accent of a much-injured man, “ what ’s your wush and your wull 
wid a poor buddy now 1 Like as may be not, since ye ’s made me 
a bankrupt claan, ye ’ll be after baating me, or the like o’ that.” — 
“ I want to have a leetle talk with ye, Marphy,” said the butcher. 
— “ Talk wid me, it is? Ye ’ll plase to excuse me, sir, for it ’s not 
jist the time for conversation, Mr. Slaughter, whin I ’m saving what 
I can fro’ the wrack, that ye ’ve made o’ my marchandise.” — 
“ Well,” cried the butcher, returning to the apartment, “ye may 
take your choice, peace or war. I ’ve broke your bottle o’ brandy, 
and if ye ’ve a mind to settle and be friends, here ’s a five-dollar 
bill,” taking out and opening his wallet, as he spoke. — “ A five- 
dollar bill, it is?” cried Murphy. “ Och, mon, and here ’s moor 
nor two hunder worth o’ all sarts o’ mischief and throuble to boot. 


192 


AS A MEDICINE. 


JO say nathing o’ worry o’ mind. It ’s not a farming liss nor foorty 
d’ your five-dollar bills that ’ll make pace betune us, Mr. Slaugh 
ter.” — “ Well, well, very well,” cried the butcher, replacing his 
wallet in his pocket, “ you ’ll not get a cent o’ me arter this.” — 
“ By the powers ! if I ’ll not have ye up to the coort for it, though,” 
exclaimed the pedler. — “ And I ’ll have you up, Brian Marphy, foi 
selling strong drink v/ithout a license,” cried the butcher. “ Only 
jest look a here ; beside the bottle what 's broke, he ’s got five 
large case-bottles in this here chist, and I ’ll bate a dollar, he ’s got 
half a dozen in tother, for even ballast.” — “It’s as onlike the 
truth as it can be,” replied Murphy. — “ Well,” said the butcher, 
“ open your chist then. I ’ll bate a dollar on ’t.” — “ It ’s upon ye 
all, jontlemen,” cried the pedler, “ that I call for protiction, or, sure 
as life, the felly will be after kicking at it, jist as he did to the 
tother, and for sartin he ’ll smash another buttle — that is, I maan, 
if there was ony there, which o’ course there isn’t.” — “Don’t 
believe a word on ’t,” cried the other ; “ stump ye to open it,” con- 
tinued he, drawing nearer to the pedler. — “Sure, jontlemen,” 
said the pedler, “ ye ’ll not see a mon murthered this a way — 
there, now, he’s gitting up his big butcher’s fut for a kick.” — 
“ I ’ll not kick your chist,” said the other, “ but I’ll have ye up, 
as I tolt ye, for selling strong drink without a license.” 

The grave gentleman in black, who, when I entered the apart- 
ment, was sitting with his eyes closed and his head against the wall, 
had evidently become interested in the controversy. He had shifted 
his position, and, for some time, had watched the parties with close 
attention. As he sat with his chin supported by his left hand, and 
his elbow resting upon his knee, I had myself become exceedingly 
interested in the variations of his uncommonly expressive counte- 
nance, as the grave or the ludicrous prevailed. Perceiving the close 
attention, which he bestowed upon the matter in hand, and hoping 
to enlist so respectable a personage in his interest, the pedler 
appealed to his decision. “ Plase your honor, sir,” said he, “1 
parsave that you ’re a jontleman, ivery inch above your head ; wull 
ye be so oblaging as to listen a bit 1 He says he ’ll have me up 
afoor the coort for silling shtrong drink widout a license. Now, sir, 
it ’s no more of a thruth than nothing in natur. It ’s not myself 
that wull deny, that I dispose of a leetle of the virry bist of Cogniac 
laar among the mountains, where, your honor knows, it ’s not sr 
aisy to be had, but not a dhrap o’ it has Brian Murphy iver soult a. 
a drink, but iver as a midicme, and chafely, your honor, to the mim- 
bers o’ the Timperance Society. There ’s Squire Magoon, — may 
be your honor knows him, — he ’s a raal mon for timperance, — 1 


AS A MEDICINE. 


193 


joult him a hull buttle a waak ago. He ’s an ailing mon, and it 
halps him a bit, ye may depind.” — “ I think,” said the gentleman 
in black, “that you said you had some Temperance Tales among 
your wares.” — “ Indaad and I did, your honor,” replied the ped- 
ler ; “ the frinds o’ timperance lave ’em wid me to be distreebuted, 
and I laves ’em aboot the contree. Iv’ry one, that buys a leetle 
Cogniac as a midicine, takes one or two o’ the Tales, as a matter o’ 
coorse, your honor.” The gentleman in black evidently struggled 
hard to suppress a smile at the pedler’s statement. — “ Ye won’t 
catch the old fox,” cried one of the group, addressing Slaughter ; 
“I told ye ye wouldn’t.” — “Won’t II” replied the butcher; 
“ ifax, you see if I don’t get him into his burrer, afore I ’ve done 
with him. Marphy,” continued he, “ you solt a quart o’ brandy to 
.Terry Sparhawk last Friday, and there isn’t a bigger drunkard this 
side o’ Littleton ; now deny that if you can.” — “ Thrue for you, 
sir, and I did that same ; but you ’re a rickning entirely widout your 
host, for, the Monday presading the virry Friday, on which I solt 
him the Cogniac, he refarmed, he did, and bekim a mimber o’ the 
Timperance Society, and purchased the brandy as a midicine 
entirely.” — “ Well, Slaughter,” cried another. “ ye han't got the 
old fox into the burrer this time, nor ye an’t like to, as I see ; haw, 
haw!” — “Look here, Marphy,” cried the butcher, his counte- 
nance indicating, that his angry passions were getting the better of 
his understanding ; “ are you willing to swear that you han't sold 
no brandy, within a month, to nobody, that was n’t a member o’ the 
Temp’rance Society ; come, there’s no need o’ lying about it.” — 
“ Indaad an there is not, sir,” replied the pedler, “ and I ’ll be after 
swearing to nothing o’ the sart. It ’s not mysilf that wull be after 
doing the onjontaal thing o’ revaling the sacrets o’ ony family ; but, 
since ye priss a poor buddy so close in a earner, I ’ll jist say for 
your own petickler haaring, Mr. Slaughter, that I solt your good 
leddy a buttle o’ the bist this virry marning, to be used as a midi- 
cine o’ coorse. I lift her a Timperance Tale or two into the bar- 
gain, and urged her to join the society.” Several minutes elapsed 
before the laughter had subsided, occasioned by the pedler’s confes- 
sion. “ The old fox has got into somebody’s burrer now, I gjiess,” 
said Atherton. — “ Your bill o’ meat goes into Squire Pronk’s 
hands afore I sleep,” saijd the butcher, grinning at Atherton ; “ and. 
as for you,” he continued, shaking his huge fist at the pedler, “I 
look upon ye as a bit o’ carrin.” — “ A pace o’ your own maat, 
may be,” said the pedler. — “ Repeat that, if you dare,.” cried the 
butoher, advancing one step towards him. — “It’s not warth 
repaiing,” said the other ; “ but ye ’d bitter be aisy whin ye ’ra in 
TCfL. II. IT 


194 


AS A MEDICINE. 


a hull skin ; ye ’ve thrated me like a dag ; ye ’ve spoilt my wares, 
and for that ye ’ll have to answer the law ; but if ye only lay the 
weight o’ your finger upon me, ye ’ll have your gruel hotter than 
ye can sup it, ye may depind.” During these last words, Brian 
Murphy had sprung to his feet ; with his left hand he had thrown 
his hat, spectacles, and goggles upon the floor ; and, thrusting his 
right into his bosom, exclaimed, “ I ’m riddy for ye, mon.” — The 
butcher readily conjectured, that, whatever the pedler might have 
within his grasp, it was neither essence nor pomaty. He therefore 
contented himself with shaking his fist at a convenient distance, and 
muttering vengeance between his teeth. By this time, the females 
had become exceedingly alarmed, and, as the affray had begun to 
assume a very serious aspect, we were all considerably relieved from 
our doubts and fears of the result, when the landlord, with the assis- 
tance of two or three of his guests, prevailed upon the butcher to 
depart. The pedler retained his posture of defence, until the rum 
bling of the wagon wheels, as it rolled furiously from the door, 
assured him that his adversary had quitted the field. He then 
replaced his spectacles and goggles, and resumed the task of exam- 
ination into the condition of his merchandise. 

“Well,” said the landlord, as he returned to the apartment, 
“ Slaughter ’s a leetle mite corned ; and, when he ’s so, he ’s apt to 
get crusty.” This worthy host now renewed his invitation to his 
guests to take “ a leetle so’thing,” though, from some cause, he 
appeared rather unwilling to extend his civility either to the gentle 
man in black or to myself. At length, encouraged by the constitu- 
tional rouge of my complexion, and after carefully reconnoitring 
my countenance on both sides, he drew near me, and with a show 
of civility, singularly contrasted with his manner upon our first 
arrival, “ Don’t ye drink a leetle so’thing sometimes?” he inquired. 
— “ Yes, I do,” replied I, with a smile. — “ I thought so,” said 
he ; and he immediately depressed the nose of his black bottle, with 
the intention of pouring out for me a dram, into a dirty, broken tum- 
bler, which had evidently seen hard service in its day. — “ Stop, my 
friend,” I exclaimed ; “ I never drink anything of the kind, which 
you have in that bottle.” — “ It ’s good whiskey,” said this impor- 
tunafe landlord ; “ hadn't ye better try a leetle?” — “ No, I thank 
you ; I never drink whiskey.” — “ Sorry we ’ve got nothing better,” 
continued he : “ had some Jimaky week ^fore last, but the Judge 
o’ Probit was along this way, and he drinkt the last drop on it. My 
gracious ! what am I a talkin on ? Why, here 's the marchant ’s 
got lots o* brandy, and I don’t doubt he ’d oblige a trav’ler with a 
snap on ’t. This ere gentleman don’t drink no whbkev.” said he, 


AS A MEDICINE. 


195 


axidressing the ped/er ; “ can’t you let him have a leetle, jest a leetle 
o’ your brandy, Mr. Marphy?” — “Only as a midicine, sir, it is, 
that I sills it,” replied the pedler, “as I toult ye, and niver as a 
drink or bivrige. The most naturalist thing in the hull warld it is, 
that the jontleman should be smited claan through his buddy by the 
dampness o’ sich absard wither as ’tis the dee ; so, an he naads a 
leetle o’ the Cogniac jist as a midicine, ye saa, — and ye ’re looking 
quite pale and streaked entirely, sir, — why, thin it ’s not mysilf, 
that would be so inhumanish as to refuse so very rasonable a re- 
quist.” Without waiting for any confirmation from me, the pedler 
was already in the act of drawing the cork from one of his bottles. 
During this part of the conversation, the gentleman in black mani- 
fested a very considerable degree of anxiety for the result. I had 
no doubt, from the expression of his countenance at the moment, 
that he had been gratified by my refusal of the landlord’s proffered 
Mdiiskey. — “ Do not remove the cork of your bottle for me, friend,” 
said I. — “I shall have no shcruples in the laast, sir,” cried the 
pedler, “an ye take a leetle as a midicine.” — “I am perfectly 
well,” I replied, “ and am not sensible that T require any kind of 
medicine.” — “You’re not saming wall, sir, indaad and you’re 
not,” said he. “ Afore I kim ower to the new contree, I tinded, a 
shpell, in a pharmocopoly shop, in Waterford ; an ixtinsive consam 
it was, kipt by Phelim McClyster and Son, at the sign of the goold 
galliput. A great thing for me it was, and a blissing it ’s been to 
mony moor, for there it was that I collicted a sight o’ laming, 
touching the haaling art and all sarts o’ nastrums and cattyplasters, 
and the like o’ them are. Why, sir, an it was not for the vanity o’ 
boosting aboot one’s oon silf, — and it *s Brian Marphy that despises 
that from the virry pit o’ his sowl, — I ’d till ye a leetle o’ the suc- 
ciss, that Ise had in my practice in the new contree. Aven afoor 
I lift Waterford, McClyster and Son has sint me aff moor times than 
ye knows o’, to administer a conjiction, upon my oon responsi- 
beelity.” — “ Indeed !” said I, with an air of surprise. — “ Indaad, 
sir, and it is,” replied the pedler; “ it’s jist as I till ye, ye may 
depind ; and it ’s mysilf that wushes Phelim McClyster and Son was 
haar to confarm it. And now, sir. it ’s jist of yoursilf I ’ll be after 
shpaking a ward, an plase ye. I ’d know from your apparance, that 
you was a jontleman of great laming in a’most all mathers — I 
consade ye that ; but *he haaling art, as I ’ve aften heer'd Mr. 
McClyster obsarve, the oold jontlemon I maan — the haaling art is 
a guissing art, to be sure, and the oolder a mon grows, the bitter ho 
guisses, o’ coorse. It ’s daap enough into the mather fse looked, 
ye may wall say that4 The hull thing ’s divided into ramadial and 


196 


AS A MEDICINE. 


pravantive. A leetle midicine, tookt afoor, is the pravantive, ye 
saa, agin the disarder whin it comes, fro’ coming at all. 1 ’d be 
after thinking, fro* your looks, sir — and they ’re maaly enough, to 
be sure — that ’t would be the virry hoith o’ imprudence to oncoun- 
ter the dart and drizzle o’ sich a’ dee, widout pravantive midicine, to 
kaap aff the coult and wit o’ the utmostphaar. ” — “And what 
medicine would you prescribe for me?” I inquired. — “ A leetle 
Cogniac, sir, to be sure,” he replied, “ taken only as a midicine, o’ 
coorse, not as a bivrige, to be sure.” — “ I never felt better in my 
life,” said I ; “ beside, I never take brandy.” — “ Ye never di?” 
said the landlord ; “ ye baan’t a temperance man, be ye?” — “ No, 
sir,” I replied. — “Glad on it,” said he; “thought ye was too 
sensible a man to be sich a tarnal fool as all that.” — “ May be the 
gentleman will take some beer,” said a miserable creature, whom I 
supposed to be the landlord’s wife. — “ No, I thank you,” said I; 
“I never drink beer.” — “ Why, you said you W'asn’t a temper- 
ance man,” cried the landlord; “what be ye, and what, in the 
name o’ natur, do ye drink?” — “I drink the beverage of God’s 
appointment,” I replied ; “ and, having long since become perfectly 
satisfied of the insufficiency of temperance, 1 became a total absti- 
nence man, and such I still am.” — “ So am I,” said the gentleman 
in black, rising from his seat, and shaking me by the hand. — 
“ Divil ye be !” exclaimed the landlord ; “ drink nothin but water ; 
if that an’t enough to set a horse a’ larfin.” — “ Yes, my friend,” 
said I, “I am a total abstinence man, and drink nothing that can 
intoxicate.” — “ Well,” said he, “ I know what ’s good for my old 
timbers ; I can’t get along without it. Sperret has helped me 
dreadfully, for forty years.” — “ You also take it as a medicine, I 
perceive,” said the gentleman in black. — “ Sartin,” said he; 
“ don’t ye know how the Bible commanded Peter to take a little — 
brandy — s’pose ’t was brandy — for his stomach ache and all his 
infarmities ?” — “ Brandy was unknown in Bible times,” said the 
gentleman in black. — “ That ’s all you knows about it,” said the 
landlord. — “Certainly,” observed the other, “ that is all I know 
about it ; besides, the person to whom you refer, was not Peter, but 
Timothy.” — “Well, well, I don’t care which on ’em ’twas: 
twas one on ’em, and that are’s enough.” — “If yeu quote an 
exanj[)le, in justification of any part of your conduct,” said the gen- 
tleman in black, “ it is your duty to prove that it is applicable to 
your own particular case. Timothy was a sick man, and a very 
abste.micms one, and it was needful that some person, whose opinion 
he highly respe<*tcd. should press upon his consideration the neces- 
iBty of taking, not brandy, as you suppose, nor whiskey, which 


AS A MEDICINE. 


19 ? 


appears to be a favorite beverage of yours, but a little wine. Now, 
wnen I passed your house, about a week since, I heard you boast- 
ing of your great strength, and vaunting that you were a match for 
any man in the mountains. Surely, there is no resemblance between 
the condition of Timothy and your own. I really think, my friend,” 
continued he, with an expression of amiable pleasantry, “that you 
would do well, if you will take it as a medicine, to wait, like Timo- 
thy, until you have an inspired apostle at your elbow to prescribe 
it.” — “ Well, well, that are ’s purty fair for talk, but it won’t dc/ 
for me. Ye see, I ’m an old man, and I ’ve had the rheumatiz nigh 
upon forty years.” — “ Just about the time that you have been in 
the habit of taking spirit,” remarked the other with a smile. — “ If 
I did n't take a leetle every day, jist to keep up sarclation, my blood 
would get jock full o’ rheumatiz as ever, you see.” — “ And pray, 
how old are you!” I inquired. — “I shall be seventy-two years old 
come the twenty-second day of next September,” he replied. — 
‘ You are quite a young man,” I rejoined, “ to talk in this extraor- 
dinary manner. A few weeks since, I called upon a man, much 
older than yourself, whose name was Pew, residing in Manchester, 
on the borders of Gloucester, in the state of Massachusetts. He 
had been in the habit of using spirit for nearly eighty years, and 
during many years he had suffered severely from the rheumatism. 
It is five years since he left it off entirely, and he has been altogether 
free from the rheumatism during this period.” “ How old was he,” 
inquired the landlord, “ when he left it off?” — “ About one hun- 
dred and one. This man was a common soldier, at Braddock’s 
defeat, and has attained the age of one hundred and six.” 

“Well, arter all,” said the landlord, “temp’rance is a good 
thing ; there ’s no denying on ’t. I ’m an ardent frind o’ temp’rance 
myself, and always have been. I don’t have nobody a drinking 
here arter he ’s drunk. I ’ve turned ’em out, many ’s the time, as 
drunk as ever you see. I ’ll have no such cattle here, I tell ye. I 
heer’d your driver say you kim from the Bay state.” — “ Yes, sir,” 
I replied, “I came from Massachusetts.” — “Well, now,” con- 
tinued he, “ look a here ; Ise had as much experence in this matter 
as most folks, I guess, and I ’ll tell ye what it is ; you ’re a ruinin 
the cause, by trying to drive folks. What ’s the use o’ taking away 
the people’s liberties? what ’s the need o’ compelling folks, by lav^, 
to leave off drinking? that ’s what I wants to know. You ought to 
use gentle suasion ; that ’s the thing. You can’t teU how afear'd I 
be that you ’ll hurt the cause ; for, as I tolt ye afore, I ’m an ardent 
tfind o’ temp’rance, I am raaly.” 

The gentleman in black could restrain himself no longer, and 

VOL. n. 17 * 


19S 


AS A RIEDICINE. 


laughed aljud. “I don’t know what you’re a larfin at, Mistei,’’ 
said the landlord ; “ but I do say, there ’s nothin in all natur makes 
me feel more raal miserable than to see a drunkard.” — “You must 
have had abundant occasion for feelmg miserably, I fear,” said the 
gentleman in black. “ Pray, sir,” continued he, “ will you be so 
good as to inform me, in what length of time you would probably 
be induced to abandon the traffic, by the employment of moial 
suasion? for, if there is even a remote prospect of turning one intt- 
vidual from this traffic in the means of misery, — and such, assur- 
edly, it is, — I am willing to labor in the cause of God and man.” 

— “Why, that’s neither here nor there,” said the landlord 
“Folks isn’t a going to shut their mouths, cause some will get 
drunk. You may go and talk to the drunkards, and persuade them 
to leave off; that ’s the right way.” — “ My friend,” said the gen- 
tleman in black, “ I will give you my views of this matter, in a few 
words. The drunkenness of our country, even at the present day, 
is a terrible evil, occasioning, as it notoriously does, a prodigious 
amount of poverty and crime, disease and untimely death. Intoxi- 
cating liquors are the cause of all this evil and of all tliese deplorable 
results. An intelligent, moral people ought not to tolerate the con- 
tinued existence and operation of any cause, productive of evil, if 
they possess the power to remove that cause, unless it be also pro- 
ductive of some greater good. Now, it has been demonstrated, in 
ten thousand ways, that intoxicating liquor, as a beverage, is pro- 
ductive of no possible good; but, on the contrary, it — ” — “ Plase 
your honor,” cried the pedler, “ I grant ye that, wid a fraa wull, as 
a bivrige it ’s as ye say ; but so sinsible a mon as yoursilf, wull not 
shpake o’ it that a way, as a midicine.’" — “ Many of our most 
respectable physicians,” said the other, “ are decidedly of opinion, 
that there is no case, in which a substitute may not be employed for 
intoxicating liquor, productive of all its good and none of its evil 
consequences.” — “ Ise niver heer’d the like o’ that, in all my barn 
dees,” cried the pedler. “ What in the warld wud oold Mr. 
McClyster, o’ the goold galliput, be after saying to sich a sintimint 
as that? Why, sir, Ise heer’d him say, moor nor a hunder times, 
that in collery fantum, — and it ’s a swaaping disarder, that same, 

— he could niver git along widout the virry hist of Cogniac, and a 
plinty.” — “Well, well, my friend,” said the gentleman m black, 
“ suffer me to proceed with my remarks upon another point, if you 
please ; and, when I have done, I will cheerfully listen to all you 
nave to say of alcoholic liquor, as a medicine. Now, if intoxicating 
liquor be the cause of infinite mischief and misery, and of no possi- 
ble good, as a bover:ig-e, why should the sale of it be permitted t« 


AS A MEDICINK 


199 


any person, in any quantity?” — “ Well, well,” said the landlord, 
“ that are ’s the point I was a wantin to fetch ye to ; now como 
short upon that. If ye ’ll get up a law to put an eend to the hull on 
it, that are ’ll be fair ; but they ’ve got a law down in the Bay state 
that ’s well enough for rich folks, but right agin the poor. A rich 
man ’ll go and buy his fifteen gallons, but a poor feller can’t do no 
sich thing. That are ’s what I call grinding the poor.” — “ If there 
be any grinding,” replied the other, “ it will surely be among those, 
who hare the. greatest facilities for getting at the means of drunken- 
ness. Some of these, I admit, had better be ground between the 
upper and the nether mill-stone, than become the victims of some 
cold, calculating liquor-seller.” — “I reckon,” said the landlord, 
thrusting his head out of the window, “it’ll hold up afore long.” 
— - “ My friend,” said the gentleman in black, “ I do not feel, my- 
self, at all like holding up. "i’ou have opened the subject for dis- 
cussion. I will listen to anything, which you may have to say, 
with patient attention. I shall be much gratified if you will listen 
as patiently to me. Besides, here are between twenty and thirty 
of us confined to the same apartment,* for a season, by the storm ; 
and, with the exception of the gentleman, who has told you he is a 
total abstinence man, the couple who are sitting in the porch, and 
myself, there is not a man nor a woman of us all, who is not a 
drinker of intoxicating liquor. I have had the testimony of my own 
eyes to that effect, within the last hour that we have occupied this 
apartment.” — “ I niver takes it mysilf, sir, you ’ll plase to remim- 
ber,” said the pedler, “ only as a midicine, sir.” — “ We ’ll talk of 
that presently,” said the gentleman in black. 

It was exceedingly amusing to contemplate the countenances of 
the different members of this assembly. Upon one, might be seen 
an expression of affected indifference ; upon another, of resolute 
defiance. While Atherton assumed an air of insolent ridicule, his 
wife pretended to make her toilet before a fragment of one of the 
pedler’s broken looking-glasses. Two or three of the party, who 
were smoking their pipes, sucked in and puffed out the diity vapor 
with unnecessary vehemence. The landlord seized a pine shingle, 
lying on the floor, and, taking out his jackknife, began to whittle ; 
while the corpulent woman, with the crutch, inquired if the wind 
was not getting southerly. The general expression was one of ill* 
nature and resentment. The whole manner of the gentleman, who 
claimed a right to be heard, was indicative of imperturbable calm- 
ness ; and, from the observations, which he had alveatly made, I 
was satisfied, that he had a good understanding of the matter in 
hauid, and was not likely to flinch from the performance of hia 


20C 


AS A MllDIGINE. 


task. I apprehended nothing so much, as that he might expel some 
of his auditors from the apartment, by his great plainness of speech 
Yet, as there was apparently no other place of refuge than the open 
air, where the tempest appeared to rage with unabating fury, I con- 
cluded, upon the whole, that our friend might count upon his audi- 
tory, though not upon willing ears. I must not forget to state, that 
he had a very captivating expression, even when giving utterance 
to things, which could not be supposed to be particularly acceptable 
to the assembly. He had all the characteristic suavity of certain 
Hiodern polemics who invariably preface their home thrusts at each 
other, with all possible tenderness of expression, and an abundance 
of apostolical appellatives. 

“ Now, my good friends,” resumed the gentleman in black, “ for, 
though we are strangers, I entertain no other sentiment towards you 
all than that of Christian friendship — can any of you doubt, that 
the traffic in the means of drunkenness is a terrible evil? There are 
some persons, who seem to have the power of drinking, even freely, 
for years, with comparative impunity, while thousands are annually 
falling victims of intemperance around them. Such is, ever has 
been, and ever will be the condition of things, in a greater or less 
degree, while the means of drunkenness continue upon the earth. 
Who will be drunkards, and who will escape, it is utterly impossible 
to tell, until the fatal experiment be made. Under whose roof-tree 
the curse — which, as we are told, stingeth at last like an adder — 
will next abide, no mortal can predict. The father, who has scoffed 
at the temperance reforni, may be compelled to regret the folly of his 
conduct, while committing the remains of his drunken offspring to 
the grave. He, who, by vending this accursed poison, has devoted 
himself, for years, to the task of preparing pits for other men, may 
become himself the victim at last: so — and it is no uncommon 
occurrence — may the wife of his bosom, or the children of his 
loins.” — “ If you mean that are last to worry me,” cried the land- 
lord's wife, “ you don’t worry me a mite. I don't calk’late to take 
no more than what ’s good for me.” — “ Indeed, my good woman,” 
said the gentleman in black, “ I meant nothing personal to any one. 
No human ingenuity has ever devised any method, whereby intoxi- 
cating liquors may be sold only to temperate individuals. If the 
traffic in the means of drunkenness had not been, at all times, 
accounted a dangerous traffic, for the consumer, it would not have 
been, as ii ever has, a subject of anxious and continual legislation. 
The sale of intoxicating liquor has been granted to a few only. The 
law carefully provides, that no persons shall be licensed but men of 
•ober lives and conversations. Yet, very frequently, the venders of 


AS A MEDICINE. 


201 


intoxicating liquors are men of iniquitous lives, and abominably 
profane and wicked conversations. The law has hitherto required, 
that no vender of the mean’s of drunkenness should permit any 
person to drink to excess upon his premises.” — “ That ’s right,” 
said the landlord ; “ don’t ye know I tell’d ye as how I always 
turned ’em right out, jist so soon as they was drunk. I never 
suffers ’em to be a pestering round here, arter that.” — “I dare say 
you do,” continued the other, “ and the only mode, in which you, 
or any other vender, can know, that a man or woman has drunk to 
excess, is the very fact that such person is actually drunken. 
I’hus, according to the good old proverb, when the horse is stolen, 
yju very discreetly shut the stable door. This provision of the law 
is good for nothing. Men who get their living by selling liquor, 
are not likely to stint their customers by giving any other than a 
very liberal construction to the law. When a man can pay for 
no more liquor, he, to be sure, is allowed by the vender to have 
drunken to excess. The law forbids the sale to common drunkards. 
Liquor-sellers, I presume, are not bound to recognize any persons 
as common drunkards, who have not been duly posted and pro 
claimed to be such, by the selectmen. Now, it very commonly 
happens, that the selectmen of towns are the liquor-sellers them- 
selves ; and they are very naturally reluctant to set the brand of 
infamy upon individuals, whom they have relieved of their last 
farthing, in exchange for the means of drunkenness. As a matter 
of course, this provision of the law becomes a dead letter ; and, even 
if it were enforced, it would be productive of very little good. The 
fear of the gallows may sometimes deter individuals from the com- 
mission of murder ; for, when a man is committing murder, he 
perfectly understands the nature of the crime and the measure of 
the punishment. But no man can look forward through a long 
progressive series of daily indnlgences, and prospectively' perceive 
that he shall be a common drunkard.” 

“ Tliat reminds me, your honor,” cried the pedler, “ o’ Tooley 
Carr : whin he was pit up afoor the baily, for baaing a common 
drunkard, he was ax’d what was ’t he ’d be after saying for his silf- 
defince ; and says he, ‘ It ’s not so, your honor ; I ’ll lave it to any- 
buddy if Tooley Carr’s not the uncommonest drunkard in all 
Waterford ; an ye ‘11 shov.- me the mon that ’ll sit down wid me, for 
the hull dee, and I ‘11 na bate him by'thraa pints o’ the dew, your 
honor may pay for the liquor.’” — “Well, my friend.” resumed 
the gentleman in black, “ with your permission, I will proreed. 
The law has expressly provided, that intoxicating liquor shall not 
be sold to servants, apprentices, and minors ; yei the records of our 


AS A MEDICINE. 


5KI2 

courts incontestably prove, that a very large proportion of offenders 
belong to these three classes of persons. Now, in every view of 
this highly-interesting subject, it is impossible to avoid the con- 
viction, that all past legislation regarding it, has been founded in 
error. It has done little or nothing to diminish the amount of 
drunkenness in this or any other country.” — “ Indaad, sir,” said 
the pedler, “ ye make it exsading plain to the commonest appre- 
hinsion, that it should be confined entirely to the pharmocopoly 
paaple, and sich trustwarthy parsons, as may be dispensed to travel 
aboot the contree, as their agents.” — “I do not mean,” replied 
the other, “ to convey any such opinion. I do not believe the com- 
munity would gain much, by having locomotive instead of stationary 
dram-shops, nor by permitting intoxicating liquor to be hawked 
about the land by pedlers.” — “You’ve got it; that’s jest my 
notion,” said the landlord. — “ I ’d no moor be after laving sich a 
thing wid a maar pidler, nor your honor,” cried the Irishman, “ but 
wid a respictable thrader, what daal’d upon honor, and soult the virry 
bist only as a midicine, under the patronage, may be, of the Timper- 
ance Society.” — “No, no,” replied the gentleman in black, “I 
am not in favor of any such project. We ’ll talk of that presently. 
Pray let me go forward with my argument. Experience has satis- 
fied every fair, intelligent mind, that the sale of the means of 
drunkenness, under every possible modification of law, in all parts 
of the civilized world, and under every species of government, is, 
and ever must be, productive of intolerable evil. While a few grow 
rich by the traffic, thousands and tens of thousands are growing poor. 
These miserable victims are persuaded to exchange not only their 
money, their homesteads, their chattels, the very clothes upon their 
backs, for a bewildering poison ; but, for the accomplishment of this 
unrighteous bargain, their health, their respectability, their hap- 
piness on earth, their eternal welfare, must all be sacrificed.” — 
“ Mister, if a poor crittur like myself may be so bold as to say one 
vord,” cried the forlorn object, who had been sitting on the entry 
floor — “ if I may be permitted to speak, all that you ’ve been saying 
is as true as the gospel. I ’d tell you my story, if you was willing 
to hear it.” — “Pshaw, daddy Greely,” exclaimed the landlord, 
“ the gentleman doesn’t want you to spin any o’ your long yarns. 
The old feller ‘s been superanimated a long spell.” — “ No, I am 
not superannuated any mi^re than yourself, Mr. Joslyn,” replied the 
old man, addressing the landlord. — “ Look a here, Greely,” cried 
the landlord, exhibiting a degree of irritation as he spoke, which 
appeared altogether unaccountable — “look a here, old feller; if 
ve ’ll behave yourself, ye may sit where ye are ; if ye don’t, I ’ll set 


AS A MEDICINE. 


203 


ye a malvincr tracks, quick enough. It ’s gitting a leelle coolish, 
with this here door open,” continued he, as he shut it upon the old 
outcast and his miserable partner. — “ My good Mr. Joslyn,” said 
the gentleman in black, with an irresistibly amusing expression of 
face, “with your permission, I will have that door open. You 
see the good lady with the crutch has frequently complained of the 
wasmth of the apartment.” As he said this, he rose from his chair, 
and opened the door to its utmost limit. “ I think,” continued he, 
‘ after I have made one or two remarks, I should like to hear that 
old man’s story, since he appears willing to relate it. Perhaps, as 
we are likely to be confined, for some time longer, by the storm, 
we can do nothing better.” — “He’s a troublesome old feller,” 
said the landlord. — “You didn’t always use to think so, Mr. 
Joslyn,” said the old man. “ Well, now, hear what I say, 
Greely,” cried the landlord ; “ don’t you darken my doors agin ; if 
’twan ’t a raining pitchforks, eenamost, I ’d turn ye out now, right 
off; ye ’re no better than a bit o’ carrin, both on ye.” — “ Ethan,” 
said the old woman, “ had n’t we better go?” — “ May be we had,” 
said the miserable old man, rising, with some effort, upon his feet, 
and placing his ragged wallet upon his shoulders. — “ Git along, 
then,” cried the landlord ; “ good riddance to bad rabbidge ; come, 
make haste, clear out, clear out.” As these poor old castaways 
were upon the very threshold, and just preparing to buffet the tem- 
pest, which was literally raging among the mountains, the gentleman 
in black sprang suddenly to his feet ; with scarcely more than a 
single stride he was at the door ; and, extending his long, bony arm, 
he arrested the old man’s progress ; at the same moment, turning 
upon Joslyn an expression of indignant irony, which I never can 
forget, “Dear, compassionate landlord,” said he, “this, I believe, 
is a public house, for the entertainment of travellers; is it not?” — 
“ Yes, to be sure it is,” he replied, “if they can pay for it.” — 
“These people,” continued the other, “whom you are thrusting 
out of doors, are evidently very old, and very poor, and, I dare say, 
very hungry. He, who giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord. 
Perhaps, my friend, you dislike such security; — as I do not, you 
will please to look upon me as their paymaster, and I will look upon 
the Almighty as mine. This couple are my guests. Come, come, 
my good woman,” continued he, turning to the tavern-keeper’s wife, 
“ let us have a specimen of your activity. Spread us a table, set 
on a couple of plates for these poor people. Give us the best your 
house affords, but keep back the worst — not a drop of the drunk- 
ard’s drink. Come, come,” said he, with the tone of one, who 
meant to be obeyed, “down with your sp'der.” — “Are ye ’d 


204 


AS A MEDICINE. 


ar‘»nest?” said the landlord. — “To be sure,” replied the gentle* 
man. — “Well,” said the landlord to his wife, “ the gentleman says 
he’ll foot the bill.” — The housewife immediately commenced her 
operations; and, while she was laying the table, the gentleman in 
black had insisted, somewhat against their will, upon bringing old 
Greely and his wife into the apartment, and placing them in a 
couple of chairs. 

“ Ye’re a raal benivilint jontlemon, sir,” said the pedler; “I 
respict ye, sir, for your ginerosity to they poor paaple. It’s misery 
enough they ’s had in their dee, Ise warrant. It ’s ivident they ’s 
waak and faable into the bargin. An your honor ’s agraable, that 
they shud ha’ a few dhraps o’ Cogniac wid their maal, jist as a 
midicine, I’d uppen a buttle, wid your honor’s command for it.” 

— “ Not a drop,” said the other, with an expression of severity; 
“ and I beg you to understand, once for all, that I have no taith 
whatever in your skill.” — The pedler, for the first time, appeared 
to be somewhat humbled ; and, dropping the slouched side of his hat 
towards the gentleman in black, he observed the strictest silence for 
an unusual period, and occupied himself in repairing, as far as 
possible, the mischief, which the butcher had wrought, among the 
contents of “ his'little bit chist.” 

Money, that omnipotent prompter among the stage-players of the 
present world, had wonderfully stimulated the energies of the host 
and hostess. Bacon, eggs, bread, butter, pickles, a weather-beaten 
mince-pie, the complexion of whose crust was as cadaverous as that 
of a corpse, and a dish of apple-sauce, black — to use the forcible 
comparison of Montgomery, in his beautiful tale of Zembo and Nila 

— “as midnight without moon” — all these, and sundry minor 
matters, were gathered together with wonderful celerity, and placed 
before the astonished gaze of this miserable couple. It was not the 
work of a moment for their kind-hearted benefactor, to convince old 
Greely and his helpmate, that this repast was intended exclusively 
for their enjoyment. “ Come,” said their entertainer, “ draw your 
chairs to the table, and make a hearty meal of it. Do you never ask 
a blessing, when God’s bounty is spread before you?” — The old 
man appeared exceedingly embarrassed, and laid down the half- 
raised knife and fork upon the table. “ Honored sir,” said he. after 
a brief pause, “ I once had a table of my own ; and, when 1 was 
first married to this poor woman, I did use to ask a blessing, morn- 
ing, noon, and night, when I sat down. It is not often that we 
get a chance to sit down at any table. We commonly eat whatever 
k given to us, by the road-side, or in some shed, or barn.” — “ God 
of the forlorn,” said the gentleman in black, extending his hand 


aS a MEDCCINE. 


205 


»ver the board, in the attitude of prayer, “ behold these supplicants, 
who stand before thee in their trespasses and sins ; sanctify to their 
use these provisions of thy bounty ; pardon their offences ; give them 
a just understanding of the error of their ways, and enable them, 
through the influence of thy Holy Spirit, to turn from that, which is 
evil, and cleave to that, which is good ; and this we ask in the name 
of Jesus Christ our Lord.” There was not an individual present, 
who was not solemnized by this pious ejaculation, and the fervent 
manner in which it was delivered. “ Now,” continued he, “ par- 
take in a grateful spirit.” The old man resumed his seat; audit 
was pleasant to observe, that a bitter pilgrimage of sin and misery 
had not entirely blunted the sensibility of his heart — his lip trem- 
bled with emotion, and the tear glistened in his eye. 

“ And now, my friends,” said the gentleman in black, turning his 
back upon the old couple, as he spoke, which movement, whether 
accidental or designed, enabled them to enjoy their repast with less 
embarrassment — “ now,”. said he, “ let us say a few words more, 
touching this law, which some of you appear inclined to find fault 
with. Intoxicating liquor is a terrible curse. Admitting, for the 
sake of argument, that it is ever a blessing, as a medicine, or when 
employed for any purpose whatever, yet, on the whole, so far as 
the welfare of the entire community is concerned, it is an intoler- 
able curse. If any man will demonstrate, that it has been useful in 
one particular example, 1 will undertake to show ten thousand exam- 
ples, in which it has proved destructive of health, riches, respecta- 
bility, happiness, reason, and life. Even when employed as a med- 
icine, the benefit, if any, is often accompanied with the severest 
injury. In a multitude of cases, in which it has acquired the repu- 
tation of a restorative, it would have been far better for the patient, 
in point of character and happiness, to have died an honest death, 
than to have been preserved a little longer, that he might transmit 
to his children the inheritance of a parent’s drunkenness and shame.’ 
— “ Thrue for ye, your honor,” cried the pedler ; “ it’s jist there 
it in, the defeeculty. The hull matter ’s aisily explain’t, it is indaad, 
sir. Ower the pharmocopoly shtore o’ McClyster and Son, at Wa- 
terford, where I sarved an apprintiship, much like, as I toult ye 
1 ’m thinking, there was a debating society, a bit' hall, I maan, for 
all the young putty kerries to debate in, aboot all sarts o’ pharrao- 
copoly inathers, and there it was Ise heer'd this idintical mather 
debated, and thrated in a most masterly way, ye may wall say that. 
There was a young jontleman o*^ the fratarnity, and there was n’t a 
puttekerry in all the length of Waterford that cud holt a link to him 
for pitting up a doctor’s proscription. It mathered not to him, wed- 

VOL. ii 18 


206 


AS A MEDICINE. 


der the doctor writ it wid a goose’s quill, or the big end of a shel- 
laly ; he ’d pick it out for sartain. There was Doctor Phelim 
O ’Griper, and he writ sich a maan fist o’ it, that poor Patrick 
McClosky died o’ a hull tally candle, that he swally’d, wick and all, 
whin, ye saa. Dr O’Griper meant no moor nor a caudle to be taken 
immadiately. The young man I ’m shpaking o’ niver failed to 
comprehind the most difeecultest of Dr. O’Griper’s proscriptions. 
Wall, your honor, this young jontleman was up to chapping logic, 
and nobuddy cud pitch him at mattyfeesick. He raasoned o’ the 
laatter jist this a way. The abuse o’ the virry bist o’ Cogniac ’s 
no raason agin the use o’ that same. The hoith o’ all propriety 
requires, that it should be tookt as a midicine. Now, if a fool o’ a 
felly wull make a baast o’ himsel, and tak moor nor is good for him,' 
that ’s na the fault o’ the pharmocopoly, but his oon, the baast that 
he was. So, ye saa, it ’s jist haar, it is ; whin a buddy takes moor 
nor is good for his particular graavance, thin he na longer takes 
it as a midicine ; but whin he takes presaasely the quuntum 
sofFeecit, thin, ye saa, he takes it as a midicine, o’ coorse. Now, 
^sir, is there raasoning moor irrefrigable nor that?” — “ I approve 
neither your reasoning nor your prescriptions,” replied the other. 
“ There is an insurmountable difficulty attending the employment of 
intoxicating liquor, as a medicine ; for ninety-nine persons in a hun- 
dred will infallibly contract the habit of taking too much physic. 
Mercurial diseases are well knowm to be frequently far more un- 
manageable than those very disorders, which mercury itself was 
intended to remove. This observation is, assuredly, as true of alco- 
holic disorders of mind, body, and estate, which are so commonly 
the effects of intoxicating liquor, taken as a medicine. If men so 
readily become drunkards, for the mere love of the liquor, as a bev- 
erage, how much will this evil be increased, when the liquor is 
swallowed under an imaginary sense of duty ! If, for the sake of 
getting better, a man will receive into his stomach the most nause- 
ous doses, and increase their quantity from day to day, how much 
more readily will he do all this, when the medicine is altogether 
agreeable to his taste ! If the disagreeable character of most med- 
icine, and the consequent reluctance to take it, have tended to 
diminish the amount of imaginary sickness, may we not reasonalily 
anticipate the wide spread of all sorts of fantastical diseases, when 
the remedial process involves nothing, more unpleasant to the vol- 
untary invalid, than lying in bed and taking drams. It is now well 
ascertained, as I before remarked, that an equally efficient substitute 
may be found for alcohol, in every case, where it has been employed 
biinerto ” — “I wish, mister, you could hear Squire Pronk talk o 


AS A MEDICINE. 


207 


the vartoo on it,” said a lank, tawny -weasel-faced man, who sat in 
the chimney-corner, smoking for the asthma ; “ your notions and 
his’n wouldn’t fadge no how, I guess.” ■■ — “ Indaad, and they wud 
not; he ’s a raal mon o’ sinse, that squire,” cried the pedler, who 
seemed greatly refreshed by the appearance of a coadjutor. “ How 
onlike this here gentleman’s talk is,” said Atherton, addressing the 
landlord, “to what Dr. Bull gin out, the day of the gin’ral mus- 
ter !” — “ Is it not fro’ Ireland, that Bull?” inquired the pedler. — 
“ No, I guess he an’t,” said Atherton ; “ he ’s from up Coos.” — 
“ I thought,” rejoined the pedler, “ he might be one o’ the Bulls o’ 
Ballymore.” — “ Well, ye see he an’t,” said Atherton. 

“Have you a temperance society in this region?” inquired the 
gentleman in black. — “ Sartin,” replied the landlord ; “ there ’s one 
on “’em sot up in every town, eenamost ; Squire Pronk ’s the president 
on it this year,- and Dr. Bull was last year.” — “ And do you mean 
to say, that either of them approves of the use of alcohol?” inquired 
the other. — “Sartin,” replied the host. “Squire Pronk never 
goes along without taking a glass o’ whiskey.” — “But it?siver 
as a midicine, ye ’ll plage to onderstand,” said the pedler. — “ Sar- 
tin, sartin,” cried the landlord, with a chuckling laugh,’ in which 
several of those present appeared willing to join. — “ Pray inform 
me,” said the gentleman in black, “ when you take brandy, or 
whiskey, as a medicine, do you send first for a physician?” — This 
interrogatory had well-nigh closed the career of him with the 
asthma. His laughter became a perfect paroxysm of bellowing and 
wheezing. — “ No, no,” said the landlord, “ we han’t got to that 
quite ; we han’t gin up our liberties up here yet. Send for a doctor 
to tell a man when it ’s time for toddy or a sling ! haw, haw, 
haw!” — “ Well, my friends,” resumed the gentleman in black, 
“ you have had your laugh. I will now exliibit before you a very 
intelligible picture of your own inconsistency and folly. Your very 
mirth, when you affirm that your Squire takes his whiskey as‘a 
medicine, abundantly proves that you entirely disbelieve your own 
statement. Opposed, as you are, to the Temperance Society, you 
are highly gratified with this example of inconsistency in one of its 
members. You would scarcely be willing, I presume, to adminis- 
ter calomel to yourselves, or your wives, or your children, unless by 
the direction of- a physician. Yet calomel is not more certainly a 
poison than alcohol, and the latter has proved inexpressibly more 
mischievous to man than the former.” 

“ The difeeculty,” said the pedler, “ saams to mysilf to lie here 
a way, your honor ; if we ’re to be all tied up wid a law, peribitin 
the sale o’ it, what, in the name o’ natur, wull the poor do for tbeii 


208 


AS A MEDICINE. 


midicine? That ’s it, an plase ye, and your honor saame to be a 
frind to the poor ony how.” — “ You and our worthy host here,” 
replied the gentleman in black, “ ap])ear quite willing to persuade 
yourselves and others, that the poor are to be deprived of some ines- 
timable blessing, by the passage of a prohibitory law. Now, the 
truth lies precisely the other way. I have heard of an Irish bishop, 
whose steward informed him, in midwinter, that the period had 
arrived for filling his ice-cellar, inquiring, at the same time, what 
disposition he should make of the old ice, which still remained ; to 
which this philanthropic prelate replied — ‘ Why, Patrick, ye may 
a’an bestow ’t upon the most dasarving o’ the parish.’ I look upon 
your philanthropy, my good friends, and that of all other liquor-sel- 
lers, who are so very solicitous that the poor should not be deprived 
of the means of drunkenness, as precisely equivalent to that of the 
bishop but I should be happy to believe, that the bestowment of 
intoxicating liquor was as harmless as that of ice in midwinter. 
The grave-yard in every village contains the ashes of many a poor 
man, whom this blessing has brought prematurely to the ground ; 
and I should rejoice to know, that intoxic^ing liquor was entirely 
discarded from medical practice.” — “I’m sure,” cried the woman 
with the crutch, in a whining voice, “ I don’t know what would 
become o’ me.” — “The virry same to mysilf,” cried the pedler. 

— “ And pray, ma’am,” inquired the gentleman in black, “ what 
is the matter with youl” — “Matter wi’ mel Why, it’s mat- 
ter enough, I can tell ye,” she replied; “it’s so hot in here a 
body ’s eenamost suffercated. I ’ve got about the horridest leg you 
ever seed, I guess ; would n’t you like to look at it 1” — “I have no 
particular occasion,” replied the other. — “I ’d jist as live show it 
as not ; most everybody ’s seen it. Dr. Bull says it ’s the beate- 
most thing he ever see ; don't ye think ’tis, Mr. Marphy ?” — “ I 
niver saad the like o’ it in the oult contree,” replied the pedler. — 
“ Hadn’t ye better look at it, mister?” said the corpulent woman, 
who appeared ambitious of being distinguished as the proprietress 
of an incomparable ulcer. — “If you will excuse me, my good 
woman,” said the gentleman in black, “ I had a little rather take 
your word for it. Pray inform me how long you have been afflicted 
in this manner.” — “Why, I can’t remember nothin — lets me 
see — how long is it. Dr. Marphy, since I began to doctor for it?” 

— “ Why, now,” replied the pedler, upon whom this bestowment 
of his professional title produced a very visible effect — “ it ’s a lang 
time to be sure, moor nor tin yaars, it is, I ’m thinking.” — “ Pray, 
Dr. Murphy,” said the gentleman in black, with an air of gravity, 
whi<?h did not conceal from a careful observer an expression of frol- 


AS A MEDICINE. 


209 


icsome contempt — “pray, doctor, as this patient appears to have 
been under your care, will you have the goodness to give us a 
description of her complaint.” — Murphy turned his goggles upon 
the inquirer, to ascertain, if possible, the spirit which dictated the 
interrogatory. His suspicions, if any existed in his mind, were 
completely lulled to slumber, by the imperturbable countenance of 
the gentleman in black ; and, conscious that his reputation in the 
highlands might suffer for lack of a little professional assurance, he 
resolved to put a bold face upon the matter. “ It ’s a most extrar- 
dinary case, it is indaad,” said he. “A buddy must be daap 
in pharmacopoly to comprehind the dignosis o’ this poor leddy’.s 
dishtamper. It saamed to be an iddumatus swalling.” — “ Yes,” 
said the patient, “ that ’s what ’t was ; I remember the name now. 
There was nine cancers.” — “ Och, niver mind aboot they can- 
cers,” cried the doctor; “they wasn’t wmrth shpakin o’.” — 
“And what became of these nine cancers?” said the gentleman 
in black. — “They was all cured right away, the hull nine o’ 
em,” replied the other. “ But it saamed as it niver wud haal, 
the chaaf throuble, and it niver did, though I ’ve warked upon 
it tin yaars, at the laast. If it haaled ower night, ’twas a did 
sartinty ’t wud brick oot agin afoor marning.” — “Well, Dr. 
Murphy,” said the gentleman in black, still preserving the same 
solemnity of manner, “ what process of cure have you adopted 
in the present instance?” — “The sacrits o’ my profission, your 
honor,” replied the doctor, “are not so virry chaap as to be 
toult for jist nathing at all ; however, as your honor saams to be 
a jontleman, I ’ll ’ave no objiction to infarm ye, that Cogniac’s a 
speceefic for iddumitus tumors.” — “ Do inform me, my good wo- 
man,” said the gentleman in black, “ have you applied the brandy 
inside or outside ?” — “ Lord a’massy, I ’ve applied it a’most every 
way you can think on. I ’ve washed my leg in it for ten years, and 
Dr. Marphy ’s always advised me to take a little to keep up my 
strength.” — “ Not presasely that, your honor,” cried the doctor, 
evidently apprehensive lest his mode of practice should be misap- 
prehended — “not presasely that, sir; but, faaring list the bad 
humors wud git rappilled claan into the wumin’s vitality, I ’se ric- 
omminded to corrict the qualifications o’ her stomic and booils wid 
a strenthener, two or thraa times the dee ; but iver as a midieine.” 
— “Wall, there now. Dr. Marphy,” exclaimed the patient, in a 
whining tone, “ I ’ve follered your proscription, I ’m sartin, as faith 
ful as ever you see. It happened, once or twice, to be sure, that I 
w^as out o’ brandy, and I thought I should ’a died ; hut jist arter, 
you kim up, and I got a fresh' supply. I b’lieve m\ soul I should 

VOL. II. 18* 


210 


AS A MEDICINK 


’a gin rigfht up, if you hadn’t ’a kim up jist in the nick o’ time, as 
you did.” — “ There’s na doot o’ it,” replied the doctor. 

“ Murphy,” said the gentleman in black, with a keen severity of 
expression, which caused the pedler to bend his eyes upon the floor, 
“ do you know, that you deserve to be indicted as an ignorant im- 
postor?” — “And is that a dacent spaach fro’ a minishter, like your- 
silf, sir?” cried the pedler. — “ I have not the happiness,” replied 
the other, “ to be a minister of the gospel, as you seem to suppose. 
I have been a physician for some thirty years. For your imposi- 
tions upon the credulity of ignorant people, you deserve to be set in 
the pillory. You know that I perfectly understand the absurdity 
of your practice, as you presume to call it ; and, if it were not ex- 
tremely inconvenient for me, residing, as I do, at a distance, I 
would have you taken before a magistrate, and I should desire no 
other evidence to convict you, than your own declarations, in regard 
to your preposterous treatment of this miserable woman.” — “ Mis- 
erable woman ! ” exclaimed the party to whom this epithet was 
applied. “ I don know whereabouts you lamed your perliteness, 
mister. What makes me a miserable woman, I wants to know ? I 
guess I ’m about as well to live as most of my neighbors.” — “ 1 
mean no offence, my good woman,” replied the other ; “ but I can- 
not repress my indignation, when I encounter such an example of 
gross imposition, as this unprincipled fellow has practised upon 
you.” — “A buddy must git his living some how or anudder,” said 
the pedler in a subdued, and rather deprecatory tone of voice. — 
“ Upon the very same principle,” said the gentleman in black, “ the 
liquor-seller, who lives, literally, by the death of his brother, con- 
tends that he must not be disturbed in his barbarous occupation, 
although he is notoriously scattering disease, and poverty, and 
death, among the community. I tell you — for I believe it to be my 
duty t' warn you of your terrible mistake — that this fellow is an 
ignorant impostor, and it is to me a matter of surprise, that you have 
not already become a drunkard, or died of a fever.” — “ How dread- 
ful hot it’s a gittin,” cried the poor woman, as she continued to 
wipe the perspiration from her brow. “ How cud you take me in 
so, Marphy, pretendin as how you was a doctor? You told me I ’d 
got a dummaty swellin, and ever so many cancers, you did, and 
that nothin wud halp me but brandy. Dr. Bull told me I took 
too much, and he an’t agin the use on ’t, as a medicine, neither.” 
— “ Wall,” cried the pedler, who perceived that it was time for 
him to be gone, and was accordingly repacking his wares as fast as 
possible — “ wall, was it not afoor ye iver saa mysilf, that Dr. Bull 
toult ye that same?” — “ Ye ’re an imp’dent, lyin feller,” cried the 


AS A MEDICINE. 


211 


corpilent woman. — “ Naat shpakin and right dacent waids, for a 
ieddy, to be sure,” cried tlie pedler, hastening his preparations 
to be gone. — “Ye never heered Dr. Bull say nothir. agin me, I 
know,” said the woman. — “ I niver sed 1 did,” replied the pedler, 
locking his little bit chist. “ He sed no moor nor this, sed he, one 
dee, all in maar plisintry, na doot — ‘ Marphy,’ sed he, ‘ it’s all a 
wark o’ superiorgation for ye to be rubbin in the shpirit into that 
good wumin's lig. Jist lit the daar sowl all alone by hersilf wi a 
plinty o’ Cogniae, and saa if she don’t rub it in thraa gills to your 
one, her oon way. ’ ” — “ What a wicked liar you be!” said the 
woman, with a face of scarlet. “ If I was a man,” lifting her 
crutch, as she spoke, “ I ’d lay this over your silly head, you Irish 
villin. You a doctor! How he has sarved me! I’ll tell ye jist 
the villin he is. Don’t ye think — ” But the pedler stopped not 
to listen to the good woman’s panegyric. His pack was upon his 
shoulders, and his shellala in his grasp. “ I wmsh na ill to nabuddy ; 
God bliss ye, Mr. Goslin,” said he. “Good bye t’ ye, Marphy,’ 
replied the landlord; “the jig’s all up with ye in the hills, I 
reckon.” — “There’s mony ’ll be sad enoof, though, beside the 
lame widdy yonder, and it 'll not be aisy to bate me oot o’ it, that 
it’s a naat thing as a midicine ony how.” — The nedler toiled up 
the hills with his burden on his shoulders, preferring to encounter 
the storm without than the tempest within. 

“ I never calc’lated he was a riglar doctor,” said the landlord. — 
“ He ’s had a mortal sight a practice up here along,” said Ather- 
ton ; “he used to say, that most o’ the doctors hadn’t no con- 
science, and that half their patients was eat up with marcry. His 
chief physic was brandy, or, as he called it, akyvity ; I ’de heered 
him say as how he could eenamost raise the dead with the very best 
on it.” — “Dear me,” cried the woman with the crutch; “the 
villin ! I don’t b'lieve one word he said, now ; but he ’s told me 
fifty times, I guess, that he would a raised ’em himself in the old 
country, but the pelice interfared and wouldn’t let him do it.” — 
“ I am of opinion,” said the gentleman in black, “ that the practice 
of this impudent scoundrel would have been very much less, if his 
physic had not been so agreeable to his patients. And now,” con- 
tinued he, turning to the objects of his bounty, who had finished 
their repast, “since you proposed to give us something of your 
history, we should be pleased to listen to your narrative.” — “ Why, 
sir,” said the old man, “I’ve been almost sorry I said anything 
about it. It ’s hardly worth telling ; but what you said about the 
effect of spirit, taken as a medicine, was so true, according to my 
«wn experience, that I was tempted to give you some accoun of 


212 


AS A MEDICINE. 


my own case.” — “That,” replied the physician, “is the very 
reason why I am desirous of hearing it. I have long believed, that 
intoxicating liquor, taken as a medicine, has ruined thousands. You 
have the appearance of an intemperate man, and, if your habit had 
its origin in the use of spirit, taken as a medicine, I should be 
pleased to hear an exact account of the manner, in which that habit 
was contracted, and as much of your personal history as you think 
proper to relate.” — “Mr. Joslyn,” said the old man, “has told 
you I am superannuated. I do not feel *lo ; and, if it was n*t for 
the habit, which has made me and this poor woman just what we 
are, I think I should be as respectable and as able to earn my biead 
as I w’as thirty years ago. But the habit of drinking — and the 
evidence of a drinking man may be taken, I suppose — is stronger 
than bolts and bars. I ’m half ashamed to confess, how much I 
hanker for liquor while I am thinking or talking about it.” — 
“ Your language and your good sense,” said the physician, “are 
so entirely at variance with your outward appearance, that I am 
desirous of knowing, if you have ever had the advantages of edu- 
cation.” — “ No, sir,” replied the old man ; “ I w’as prepared for 
college, but my parents felt themselves too poof to support me there. 
A large part of my history is well known to more than one that are 
here now, and they can easily set me right, if I state anything which 
is not perfectly true. I am now over seventy years old, and I’ve 
been in the habit of using spirit for more than fifty. The doctors 
have told me very often, that, if I hadn’t an iron constitution, it 

would have been over with me long ago. I was born in — , 

where I lived the first forty years of my life, forty or forty-one — 

how long was it, Mr. Joslyn, that I lived in after you opened 

your shop there?” — “Don’t remember nothin about it,” said 
Joslyn ; “ w^at in the name o’ natur. Daddy Greely, are you a 
going to tell that old story over again for? Why, mister,” con- 
tinued he, addressing the physician, “ the old man’s tongue’ll run 
as long as Saco river, if you don’t dam it up somehow or other.” 

— “ Good Mr. Joslyn,” said the physician', “ this old man is willing 
to tell his story, and I am willing to hear it. Proceed if you please.” 

— “ Well, sir,” resumed the old man, “ my father was a farmer, 
and both my parents were honest, hard-working people. Wasn’ 
it so, Mr. Atherton?” — “ They were good friends to me,” replied 
Atherton, “and I never heered a word agin either on ’em.” — 
“ There,” cried Joslyn, “ now he ’s got a start, and old Nick won’t 
stop him, arter the ile o’ fool -you ’ve gin him about his father.” — 
“Pshaw!” said Atherton, “do let the old man talk, if he will; 
it’s eenamost the only rickeration he’s got.” — “Let him talk 


AS A IMEDICINE. 


213 


then ; I don’t c\re,” said Joslyn ; “ only he ’s so dreadful petiklar 
about every little thing.” — “Mr. Joslyn,” said the physician, 
“you seem to be very unwilling that I should be gratified in my 
wish to hear this old man’s story. I shall be very much obliged to 
you, if you will permit him to relate it without interruption.” — 
“Don’t care a snap for him, nor his story neither; only mind, 
Daddy Greely, arter to-day, don't you come here any more.” — 
“ Be so good as' to proceed,” said the physician. As the old man 
recommenced, “ He ’s eenamost non compis, and he ought to be 
took up,” cried Joslyn, taking the tobacco from his mouth, and 
throwing it angrily on the hearth. “ My parents had me fitted for 
college, as I told you,” said the old man, “ and that just about 
unfitted me for the farm ; and, as they could n’t afford to send me, it 
was difficult to say what I should do next. I kept the town school 
three or four winters, and helped on the farm in the farming season. 
My parents, at this time, were strictly temperate ; and, till about 
two years before my father’s death, we had no spirit in our house. 
At that time, there were three brothers and two sisters of us in the 
family. We lived happily enough then. My parents were religious 
people, and we were all brought up, as it would be called now-a 
days, rather strictly. If there was anything that father and mother 
both seemed to abhor, that thing was a drunkard. About two years 
before my father died, he had a troublesome complaint, for which 
the doctor advised him to make use of a little gin. He was very 
unwilling to follow this advice ; but the doctor almost insisted upon 
it. So he said he would have no more of it in the house than was 
absolutely necessary ; and he gave me a moderate-sized phial to get 
it in. It was so small, that I well remember how you laughed, Mr. 
Joslyn, when you filled it. You held it above a tumbler to fill it, 
and about half a gill run over into the tumbler. Don’t you recollect 
what you said to me?” — “Don’t remember nothin about it,” 
replied Joslyn, gruffly. — “ Well,” said the old man, “ I never shall 
forget it ; said you, ‘ When the old gentleman gets a taste of this 
Hollands, if he don’t say it ’s morish, I ’ll treat. He won’t send a 
phial next time ; come, friend Ethan,’ said you, ‘ take what ’s left 
in the tumbler yourself; you’re right welcome.’ I hesitated a 
little ; but seeing father was going to take it, I thought I ’d see how 
it tasted, at any rate. So I took it off. ‘This is my first dram,’ 
said I. ‘ ’T won’t be your last, though ; you ’re inoculated, Eihan, 
I guess,’ said you, with a laugh. There never was a truer proph- 
et.” — “ Greely,” cried the landlord, “ I b’lieve you take a raal 
pleasure in Hinging this ere in my teeth. You ’ve done it fifty times 
a’ready, and I ’ll tell ye what ’tis, I won’t bear it no longer.” — 


214 


AS A MEDICINE. 


“Good Mr. Joslyn,” said the physician, “I do not see any cause 
for so much excitement. Tiiis poor old man is entitled to the privi- 
lege >''f telling the truth in a decent manner. He says that the first 
dram he ever drank was administered by your hands, and probably 
he perceives a connection between that original a A and his present 
deplorable c^’^dition. Yours is not a very uncommon case. Depend 
upon it, gooQ Mr. Joslyn, no man can be long a dram-seller, whose 
fortune it will not be to administer the very first dram to more than 
one, who must ultimately die drunkards. So unquestionable is this 
tremendously aw'ful truth, that it must be taken into the account of 
every man w'ho deals in this tincture of destruction ; and if to be 
admitted into the materia medica at all, such is its appropriate title. 
It must be set down as one of the inevitable conditions of this hate- 
ful traffic, that the dealer must initiate some into the mysteries of 
intemperance, and consummate the perfect work of misery for others. 
A dram-seller and a drunkard-maker are convertible terms ; they 
mean precisely one and the same thing. But, good Mr. Joslyn, you 
are a stickler for the liberties of the people : so am I ; and I must 
insist, on my own account, and’ upon that of this poor man, that we 
have a perfect right to converse upon any subject in an orderly 
manner, in our own house ; and such is every public house into 
which we happen to enter. There is no obligation on your part to 
listen longer than the conversation may prove agreeable.” — “ I an’t 
agoin to be turned out o’ my house, neither,” said the landlord ; 
“ and I ’ll listen jist as long as I see fit.” — “ Agreed, good Mr 
Joslyn,” said the physician ; “ and now, my poor old man, go on 
with your story, if you please, which to me has become highlv 
interesting already.” 

“Well,” resumed the old man, “ I would not have believed your 
prediction could have come true so soon, Mr. Joslyn, if I had not 
witnessed its fulfilment myself. The phial of gin was very soon 
consumed. My father believed that it was of great use to him ; 
and we were all highly pleased with the effect it appeared to have 
upon his health and spirits. It was not two days before he sent 
me for more gin. ‘ You may as well take a black bottle, Ethan,’ 
said my father ; ‘ it is the greatest help to me I have ever tried.’ 
I remember how you laughed, when I came the second time to your 
shop. I could n’t help laughing, myself. ‘ If you ’ll pour it over a 
tumbler, may be I ’ll get my fee,’ said I. ‘ Well, well,’ said you, 
‘ I don’t stand about a trifle with a good customei ’ That w’as my 
second dram.” — “ You ’ve got a mortal memory. Daddy Greeiy,” 
said Joslyn; “I guess you remember a good many things that 
never happened.” — ‘I’m sure,”^ said Greeiy those were your 


AS A MEDICINE. 


215 


words ; and you told nr e that nobody ever knew the good of it, till 
he tried it hot, with a little sweetening, and a toad in it. I liked it 
so well already, that I began to think I could possibly contrive to 
take a dram, now and then, out of father's bottle. Though I had 
certainly executed my commission within a reasonable time, father, 
who was waiting at the door, scolded me for my delay ; and, as my 
dram had, even then, produced some effect upon me, I gave him a 
saucy answer. It was the first disrespectful word I ever said to 
him. He was so astonished, that he set dowm the bottle, and 
looked at me with amazement, as I walked away. I was ashamed 
of myself,, and, in about five minutes, I went back and begged his 
pardon. He readily forgave me ; and, in the fulness of his heart, 
he offered me a part of a glass of gin, cautioning me never to 
take it, except as a medicine. I was surprised to see him take a 
second glass almost immediately. Shortly after, he began to talk 
with me in a very familiar manner, and was proceeding to tell me 
the particulars of his will ; w^hen Ebenezer, my eldest brother, came 
in to say that a shower was coming up, and to ask him and myself 
to help the hired men, who were getting in the hay. ‘ No,’ said 
he, ‘ you and Ethan can attend to it ; first put the saddle on the 
mare ; I ’m a going right down to the doctor’s, to tell him what a 
world of good this gin has done me, and to ask him why he never 
thought of it before.’ — My mother was occasionally troubled with 
cramp in the stomach ; and father, one day, advised her to try a lit- 
tle of his gin. She tried the experiment, and was so much pleased 
with the result of it, that she soon came to have a separate bottle 
for her own particular use. We all of us, in due time, began to 
think that a little gin was indispensable in hot weather, and in cold 
weather, and in wet weather ; and even my sisters came at last to 
the opinion, that they could not get along on washing days without 
it. As my father’s phial soon gave place to a quart bottle, so the 
quart bottle was exchanged, before long, for a case bottle ; and 
that, before six months had passed, was laid aside, and our gin was 
procured in a demijohn, after you persuaded father, Mr. Joslyn, that 
it would come a trifle cheaper by the five gallons.” — ’‘Well,” 
said the landlord, “ it did come cheaper, in the long run, did n’t if?” 
— “ The long run !” said the old man, rolling up his eyes ; “it has 
proved dear enough to us all, in the long run ; and I ’d chop off my 
right hand this minute, if I could only feel as I did the hour before 
vou persuaded me to drink that first glass of gin.” — “ Well, why 
don’t you leave off now, then, you old fool?” said Joslyn. — 
“ Hear, good Mr. Joslyn,” said the gentleman in black,. “I beg 
you to be a little less severe upon this poor old man : depend upon 


216 


. AS A MEDICINE. 


it, he is no more entitled to the appellation of an old fool, than y<MiT 
inn hero to the sign of the good Samaritan. You seem to suppose 
that an intemperate man can cast off his horrible habit, as easily as 
we cast off our old shoes. Such is nothing like the truth. W.ien 
you told him, after he had taken his first glass of intoxicating liquor, 
that he was inoculated, you could not have selected a more appro- 
priate word. Alcohol is a poison ; and the virus cannot more per- 
fectly enter into the system, when a fatal disease is communicated 
by inoculation, than the undying lust of intoxicating liquor in cer- 
tain constitutions, after the alcoholic poison has been received into 
the stomach. Proceed' with your story, if you please.” 

“ Before a twelvemonth had gone by,” continued the old man, 
“ it was plain enough that some of our neighbors began to think my 
father and mother both drank quite as much gin as was good for 
their health. They were kind-hearted people, and could not resist 
the temptation to do good, by recommending to others, as a medi- 
cine, the very thing, which had been of so much advantage to them- 
selves ; and, as they were well known to be honest and sincere, the 
influence of their advice and example was very considerable in our 
village. My father seemed to be well aware, that there was some 
hazard in the employment of strong liquor. I have ofcen heard him 
say, very gravely, when he was raising the glass to his lips, ‘ It is 
only as a medicine, Ethan, you must remember.’ My mother once 
told me, that she was very much afraid father was getting into the 
habit of taking too much gin. I mentioned this to my oldest sister, 
Jerusha. She said it was odd enough, that mother should say so, for 
father had expressed the same fear about her. When I mentioned 
this to my other sister, Nabby, she said Jerusha M^ould do well to hold 
her tongue, for it was well known, that she had lost Squire Brattle- 
banks, who was courting her, and left her on account of the smell 
of her breath. I told my brother Ebenezer, that I was really afraid 
we W3re getting into a bad way. He flew into a rage, and said it 
was e.iOugh for him to have one lecture from Deacon Tobey, that 
morning, about drinking gin, and he was not a going to have 
another one from a younger brother. I then began to think very 
seriously, that our family was getting a bad reputation; and I 
resolved to lay my fears before our clergyman, who was an excellent 
man. I went to see him, the next morning, at his house, and met 
him on the way. ‘ Ethan,’ said he, ‘ J am truly glad to meet you, 
for I have been desirous of seeing you by yourself, that I might 
have a little talk with you. I am sorry to hear that you are fre- 
quently. seen in Mr. Joslyn’s store, drinking gin.’ ” — “Old Parson 
Mosely always had a grudge agin me,” said Joslyn, “ as long as I 


AS A MEDICINE. 


217 


lived in that town, and you know it. Will you pretend to say, 
Daddy Greely, that you han’t heered him speak o’ me and my shop 
in an unginrous manner 1” — “He did use rather strong language 
sometimes, I allow,” replied the old man. — “ Yes, yes,” said the 
landlord, “ Ise heered o’ his talk ; he used to call me hard names , 
I ’ve heered on it.” — “ I never did,” said Greely. — “ Well, whai 
did he say ? I want to know,” said Joslyn. — “ Why, if I remem- 
ber right,” replied Greely, “ he used to say that your store was one 
of the gates of hell, and that Satan could not do better for himself, 
than by setting up such dram-shops in every village.” — “ Well,” 
said Joslyn, “ he was an old Orthodox rascal. I could tell a stoiy 
about him, if I was a mind to.” — “Mr. Josl)m,” said Greely, 
“ though I ’ve nothing to say for myself, I can’t bear to hear you 
abuse so good a man as Parson Mosely. What story can you tell 
against that good old manl” — “ None o’ your business,” said the 
landlord ; “ I an’t agoin to be catechized by you neither.” — “ Did 
you ever hear anything agahist Parson Mosely, Mr. Atherton 1” 
inquired the old man. — Atherton shook his head. — “Nor I 
neither,” said his wife. — “He was a raal nice old gentleman,” 
said the man with the asthma, taking his pipe from his mouth, 
“ only he was dreadful petiklar about tobacca. Whenever I met 
him, with my pipe in my mouth, and stopped to have a little talk 
wdth him, he’d look right up at the weathercock, and, knowing I ’d 
been a vige or two to sea, he ’d step up to windward, and cry out, 
‘ The weather-gage, if you please. Captain Snakeroot.’ Don’t ye 
remember how he sarved Parson Morse, when he come to see him'* 
Why, he set a wash-tub half full o' sand for him to spit in.” — “ 1 
never knew but one thing agin him,” said the woman with the 
crutch ; “ he did n’t seem to have no bowels for poor folks’ habits, 
and he was so set agin taking sperret, that he wouldn’t iisteu to 
no kind o’ poligy for it.” That ’s very true,” said old Greely, 
“ and it would have been better for us both, if we had taken his good 
advice.” — “ Please to speak for yourself, Greely,” said she, with 
evident displeasure ; “I don’t calk ’late to take more than ’s good 
for me, and only as a medsun.” — “I calculated just so myself, 
once,” said the old man ; “ but you all know where my calcula- 
tions have brought me.” — “Come, my friend,” said the physi- 
cian, “ I am afraid we are losing the thread of your story, and I 
have a desire to hear it to the close.” .... 

“ Well, sir,” continued the old man, “ when Parson Mosely spoke 
to me of my own habit, I was so confounded, that I had n’t the 
heart to say a word about the family. He talked to me till he made 
me shed tears. I did n’t come to your shop for a fortnight after 

VOL II. 19 


218 


AS A MEDICINE. 


that. Mother saw that something was the matter with me, and 
advised me to take a little spirit; and, so strong was my appetite 
even then, that, notwithstanding the earnest counsel that Parson 
Mosely had given me, I vsry readily followed her advice, and took 
a dram. On the plea of ill-health, my father neglected his farm, 
and on the same plea, he continued to drink spirit, as a medicine, 
increasing the dose, as his malady became more troublesome ; so 
that, for several months before he died, he did little else than stay 
at home and drink gin. 

“A circumstance took place in our family, that produced the first 
quarrel that I ever heard of between my father and mother. I 
remember well, for I used to read my Bible, when I was young, the 
first quarrel after the flood was produced by intoxicating liquor. 
My father all along appeared to be unconscious, that he was drink- 
ing more than was good for him ; my mother was equally blind in 
regard to herself ; yet each of them had, for some time, become 
anxious in respect to the other. My father had gone so far, as to 
request Parson Mosely to have a conversation with my mother, upon 
the evil consequences of taking too much spirit. But it seems she 
had made the first move, having already called on the parson, and 
suggested her fears respecting her husband’s habit. Accordingly 
Parson Mosely invited them both to his house at the same time, 
without letting either of them know, that he had invited the other. 
They felt rather awkwardly, no doubt, when he opened the matter, 
and told them, as he did, that, as each of them had complained of 
the other, he thought it would save time and trouble to see them 
together, and hear what each one had to say. When they got home, 
there was a very unpleasant fending and proving, and a good deal 
of ill humor, that lasted several days. For two or three weeks 
there was less gin drunk in our house. After that time, we got 
into the old track again pretty much. 

“I’m afraid I’m trespassing on your patience.-” — “Not at 
all,” said the physician. — “ Well, sir, I ’ll tell you the upshot in 
as few words as I can. My mother died of cramp in the stomach, 
and my father’s death was said to be produced by the malady 
for which the doctor had prescribed gin as a medicine. I certainly 
believe, if they had lived a year or two longer, that one, if not both 
of them, would have been sadly intemperate people. When my 
father died, we all supposed that he had left us a little property, the 
homestead at least. But it was not so, Mr. Joslyn, was it?” — 
“You want me, I s’pose,” said the landlord, “to save ye the 
trouble o’ tellin that I had a morgige on ’t. S’pose I had. I come 
by it honestly. ’T was a great loss to me arter all. I did n’t git 


AS A MEDICINE. 


2i^ 


my hull pay by over twenty-three dollars, ye see.” — “ Don’t you 
remember,” said the old man, “long after the date of that mort- 
gage, of which I knew nothing, till father was dead — don't you 
remember Gould the sexton said one day, in your shop, that the 
Greely folks drank more gin than all the rest of the parish, and that 
you replied, in my hearing, ‘ The old gentleman ’s rich, and can 
well afford it;’ don’t you remember that, Mr. Joslynl” — “Don’t 
b’lieve I ever said any sich thing,” replied the landlord. — “ Well, 
sir,” continued the old man, addressing the physician, “ my two 
brothers and one sister are dead ; they were all three intemperate. 
My youngest sister, Nabhy, was intemperate also, and parted from 
her husband. He is dead. She, when I last heard of her, was 
living in Vermont; she had reformed, and was a member of the 
temperance society. After my father had been dead about three 
years, I got married. My wife had a little property, and we bought 
a small farm, near the bend of the river as you enter the town of 

. You remember our little place, Mr. Atherton.” — ^ “ To 

be sure,” he replied ; “ don’t you remember that row o’ russetings 
that you sot out. Daddy Greely, by the side of the ferry roadl” — 
“O yes,” said the old man. — “I passed there last month,” con- 
tinued Atherton, “ and I never see such apples in all my born days.” 
— “I took a deal of pains with those trees,” said the old man, “ and 
I thought we should have eaten the fruit of them sooner or later, 
Polly, but we never did.” — The poor old woman plucked a rag 
from her pocket, and put it to her eyes. — “Rouse yourself, my 
friend,” said the physician, clapping the old man upon his shoulder; 
“ shake off this accursed habit, and by God's blessing, you may yet 
eat of the fruit of those very trees.” — “Ah, sir,” he replied, I 
fear you do not rightly understand the force of this horrible habit. 
If a thousand good resolutions could have cured me, I should have 
been a freeman years ago, instead of the slave that I am. After I 
was married, I did abstain entirely for nearly a year. You remem- 
ber how 1 began again, Mr. Joslyn; you remember that training 
day, and how' you bantered me about my unwillingness to treat my 
olatoon, when I was made a sergeant of our company.” — “ No, 1 
don’t,” he replied. — “ I do,” said Alhenon ; “ and Jeems Larra- 
bee, the butcher, your wife’s brother, said he 'd rather a gin a prime 
beef than you should a bruk into that are ice agin.” — “ ’T was an 
awful bad move for me,” said the old man ; “ and I’ve never been 
able to conquer the habit from that time. I kept liquor in my house, 
after that time, so long as I had one; my wife fell into the same 
habit, and much in the same manner that my mother had done. We 
had two boys. They followed the example of their parents. Both 


220 


AS A MEDICINE. 


became intemperate. One died at the age of twenty-three, and 
whether the other is living or dead, we do not know. I have been 
in the poor-house, and out of it, and in again ; and almost every- 
thing that befalls intemperate people, but death and distraction, has 
happened to us. Before my father was led to have spirit in the 
house, as a medicine, I do not believe there was a more temperate, 
or a happier family in the state. When I reflect upon the destruction 
it has brought upon us all, father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife, 
children, — that first phial of gin comes up in my thoughts like a 
phial of wra'th, that has been poured out upon our, heads.” 

“ And pray tell me,” said the physician, — “ you seem so rational 
a man that I seriously a.sk you the question, — why not become at 
once a member of the temperance society, gather up the wreck 
of your fallen respectability, and resolve, though you may not 
have many years to live, at least to die a reformed old man?” — 
“ Because, sir,” he replied, with an expression of sincere mortifi- 
cation, “ I am sure I could not keep my pledge, and I do not wish to 
make myself more contemptible than I am.” — “If you had a house 
of your own,” said the physician, could you not put such a 
restraint upon yourself, as. to resolve that you would have no spirit 
under your own roof?” — “Yes, sir, I rather think I could,” 
replied the old man. “ I told you I abstained for nearly a year after 
my marriage. I had not a drop of spirit in my house, during that 
period ; and, when I recommenced drinking, it was not at my own 
house, but, as I have said, at Mr. Joslyn’s shop.” — “Ah,” cried 
Joslyn, “ most all the mischief in the way o’ drinking, that ’s ever 
happened in this world, was done at Joslyn’s shop.” — “Or at 
some other,” said the physician. “ Here lies the whole mystery,” 
continued he; “very few intemperate men are made such at their 
own firesides. Their wives, their Jittle ones are seldom the 
witnesses of the first, the second, or the third indulgence ; though 
they are so frequently the victims of that sloth and ungovernable 
passion, w'hich transform the intemperate man into an improvident 
and abusive husband, and an apostate father. If these means 
of drunkenness were no longer supplied at taverns and grog-shops, 
the number of intemperate persons would be wonderfully reduced 
Your history,” continued the physician, turning to the old man. 
“ presents a very striking illustration of the dangerous effect of 
intoxicating liquor, taken as a medicine. Its employment in this 
manner, even by a religious man, appears to have converted himself, 
his wife, and his whole progeny into a nest of hard drinkers, and 
to have brought misery upon them all.” 

“Yes,” said one of the group, who had remained silent until 


AS A MEDICINE. 


221 


now, “ it ’s pooty much finished up the hull Greely family, that ’s 
sartin. In the town where I was born, about forty miles into the 
state o’ Maine, there was sothin droll happened jest in this way 
Old Miss Norcross had an awful sore mouth. She was a raal, ravin 
temperance woman as ever you see. Whenever she come alongside 
o’ anybody, she didn’t care who ’twas, had been a drinkin spirit, 
she’d turn her nose right up, kind o’ signifying as how she smelt 
him, and wasn’t agreeable to it. She used to brag how she never 
took the vally of a spunful, in all her born days. She was presi- 
dent of the female oxillry tittottle abstnunce in our town, till she 
bio wed up, jist as I ’m a goin to tell ye. She sent for Dr. Mes- 
sarvy, to git her mouth cured, right off, as she ’d got to read a long 
report afore the female tittottlers, in two or three days, and her 
mouth was so sore she could scace speak. So Dr. Messarvy told 
her to wash ’t six times a day with new rum. She said she ’d no 
idee on ’t. They was a hull forenoon a argyin the matter. But, 
when she found, that nothin else would do, and the day was getting 
nigh that she was to read the report, she o’en sent out and got a 
pint o’ rum to wash her mouth. I was in Job Trull’s shop, when 
her little nigger come in for it. The shop was chuck full, for ’t was 
a muster day ; and, when he ax’d for a pint o’ rum for Miss Norcross, 
sich a shoutin and thumpin o’ sticks and feet you never heer’d in 
your life. They kicked up sich a confounded dust in Job’s shop, 
that you couldn’t see acrost. Some talked o’ carrin over the 
artillery to fire a salute in honor o’ Miss Norcross, right under her 
winder ; and there was no eend to their jokes about it. Howsom- 
eever, I ’ll tell ye the upshot. She got the rum, and washed 
her mouth, as the doctor told her to, six times a day ; and, when he 
kim agin, Jinnison, their hired man, kim a runnin out with his eyes 
as big as summer squashes in a favorable season, and he cries out, 
says he, ‘ Life on me ! Doctor Messarvy, Miss Norcross is drunk 
as sure as a shovel!’ — ‘I want to know?’ says Dr. Messarvy. 

Well,’ says Jinnison, ‘jest come in and see for yourself.’ So, 
sure enough, she was, and ’twas a dreadful disappointment to the 
tittottlers, as ’t was the day o’ their meetin. When the doctor 
ax’d her next day, arter she kim to, how in the name o’ natur it 
happened, — ‘I swallyd it,’ says she ; ‘ you never told me not to.’ 
But that wasn’t the worst on ’t by u great chalk. She see she 
did n’t know how good ’t was, and arter she ’d got a taste, she 
did n’t know when to leave off. She got to be intemperate, and ’a 
been so ever since.” — This brief narrative was followed by such 
peals of laugnter as have seldom been heara among the mountains ; 

VOL. II. 19^ 


222 


AS A MEDICINE. 


and, once more, I looked upon the poor man with the asthma, mar*, 
veiling at his ability to endure such a convulsive trial. 

“ I reckon,” said the man with the asthma, “ it ’s the natur o’ 
wimmin to git overtook that are way, when they ’s a nussin. They 
git a notion, that they want sothen to strengthen ’em. I ’ve known 
a number that ’s got to be raal topers, that way, takin sperret as a 
medsen like. Let me see,” continued he, counting on his fingers, 
— “ there ’s no less than seven in our town, that ’s got to be right 
down intemprit, since they’s had young ones, that was correct 
afore, as far as ever I see. There ’s Molly Gleason, and Sukey 
Fairer, and Babbit the tanner’s wife.” — “Massy,” cried Mrs. 
Atherton, “ how you talk !” — “ Yes, she ’s corned half the t’me,” 
said the man with the asthma. — “I wish, my sowl, I could see 
her,” said the woman with the crutch ; “ she and I was as thick as 
could be afore she was married. I should like to try and persuade 
her to give up sich a dreadful habit o’ takin more than was good for 
her. What a pity ’tis !” — “ There ’s Priscy Meeks, the squire’s 
wife,” continued the man with the asthma, “she’s as bad as any 
on ’em : Betty Merri wether, that lives there ’s told my wife, she ’s 
seen Priscy fifty times sippin o’ sugar and gin, and drawlin out a 
sort of a lullaby to quiet her young one, till she ’d fairly sung 
herself to sleep instead of her baby. Crissy Snivel, the tailor’s 
wife, got a goin as bad as any on ’em; but Snivel ’s pooty much 
bruk her on it. Ye see he put a metic in ’t. She was upon gin 
then. So she went to Merrick’s shop, and told him his gin didn’t 
agree with her, and got some brandy. Snivel watched her motions, 
and she ’d no sooner got it into the house, than, unbeknown to her, 
he put a metic into that. So she went to Merrick agin, and told 
him his brandy sarved her jest as bad as the gin did. So she got a 
little Jimaky ; and ’t was n’t in the house half a hour afore Snivel 
had a metic in that too. She got, that way, to think sperret 
was n’t jest the thing for her stomach, but she never suspected the 
leastest thing about the metic. About a month arter, a dozen 
wimmin, maybe more, kim to spend the art’noon at Miss Snivel’s 
house. So ye see, as she had the good stuff by her, and could n’t 
make no use on ’t herself, on account of her petiklar weak stomach, 
and as most on ’em was ailin somehow, and took a leetle now and 
then, as a medsen, she treated ’em all, and was as liberal with it, 
as if ’t was o’ no more vally than rain-water. Some on ’em took 
gin, and some on ’em took brandy, and some on ’em took Jimaky. 
But did n't make a mite o’ differ which ’t was they took. It sot ’em 
1 chattefin like all possessed for about half an hour. Then, one 
liter another, tl ey began to feel a leetle squally ; and, at last, they 


AS A MEDICINE. 


223 


got a goin every one on ’em. Sich a time Snivel says he never 
heer’d tell on. He was a w'orkin in his shop at the beginnin on ’t. 
So, when he heer’d the first noise, he peeped through the kev-hole, 
and he said he thought he should ’a died a laughing. So he ran 
back into the shop, for fear they should suspect sothin, and he fell 
to work cuttin out a pair o’ rigimental smalls for Gineral Tweezer ; 
but he laughed so, that he spoilt the breeches, and cut ’em, by 
mistake, arter Parson Dearin’s measure, so that the jineral could n’t 
’a got into ’em at no rate arter they was made up ; and bein of a 
bright yaller, they would n’t ’a bin the thing for a minister no how. 
So, ye see, ’twas a totle loss. But the eend o’ the joke wasn’t 
like to come out so pleasant. Several on ’em had a narrer squeak 
or it, and old Miss Hawks eenamost wrenched herself to death. 
B'jt the best o’ the hull I ’m agoin to tell ye. Not a soul on ’em 
ever suspected the leastest trick ; and Merrick got sich a bad name 
.for selling liquor that wasn’t ginivine, that he lost a’most all his 
custom in our town arter that. Snivel got confoundedly scat, for, 
arter a while, he thought ’twas sich> good story he couldn’t keep 
it to himself no how ; so he told it round to one and another, and at 
last it got to Squire Pronk’s ears, and the Squire told Snivel, that, 
if old Miss Hawks, who was ailin a long spell, should happen to 
pop off afore the year was out, ’t would be manslarter, as sure as 
fate. Howsomesever, the old woman’s a livin yet; but she han’t 
taken a drop sence that day. A number on ’em has n’t. So good ’s 
come out on ’t arter all. I reckon there ’s a good many folks, that 
don’t like the name o’ takin sperret, now the Temprance Society 
has got sich head-way, and yet they like a drop well enough too , 
so I reckon they gets ailin, and sends for the doctor a purpose.” 

“ There is something in what you say,” said the physician 
“ and a doctor who carries the principles of temperance into his 
practice, will sometimes find himself extremely unpopular with his 
patients. — The storm continues to rage without, and I see no 
prospect of its abatement. I will tell you a story, which occurred 
within my own knowledge. The subject of this narrative was well 
known to me, and, when you have heard it, you will doubtless 
perceive that I have a practical reason for my fears, in relation to 
the use of intoxicating liquor as a medicine. 

“ About twenty years ago, I practised, as a physician, in a family 
residing on the borders of a pleasant village, about fh^e-and-twenty 
miles from the metropolis of New England. In my estimation of 
sucli matters, they were the wealthiest people in that village ; and 
yet they lived almost from hand to mouth, to use a phrase suffi- 
ciently well understood by some of us, no doubt. Their name was 


224 


AS A MEDICINE. 


Sanderson. This family consisted of the father and mother, both 
far advanced in years, a son at that time nineteen yeare of age, and 
a daughter, three years younger, who had been a cripple nciri her 
birth. They had tenanted, for many years, a small estate, scarcely 
extensive enough to be called a farm. — It did not exceed threo 
acres. — Yet it was often said, that the Sandersons, by their sidil 
and unremitting industry, had commonly a better crop from their 
three acres than Farmer Stetson, a laz;y and intemperate man, had 
ever gathered from his farm, adjoining theirs, which comprised full 
thirty acres of first-rate land. The mother had been an inval.d for 
very many years; and the daughter, who, as I have told you, was a 
cripple, had never been able to perform any species of housework. 
The whole burden of supporting this family devolved of course 
upon old Sanderson and his son Peter. Peter Sanderson, however, 
was an uncommon young man. He was, by common admission, 
the smartest, and, in the opinion of one individual at least, the 
handsomest lad in the village. He had been, for years, the success-* 
ful suitor of Fanny Weston, a very pretty girl, whose parents were 
dead, and who resided with a connection of her father’s, in that sort 
of ambiguous position, so common in our country towns, neither - 
precisely relative nor help. Neither Peter Sanderson nor Fanny 
Weston had the slightest recollection of having fallen in love with 
each other. Their love, like the conversion of pious persons not a 
few, had not been of immediate and instantaneous production, but 
the result of a more dilatory process — the work of time. Their 
love was the natural consequence of ten thousand kind offices from 
childhood to maturity. They were born near each other ; upon 
their way to the village school, and upon their return home, they 
were continually thrown together. In the wnnter, Peter was always 
ready to drag Fanny' on his sled; and wffien Fanny begged two 
summer sweetings of her father, one of them, sooner or later, came 
into the possession of Peter Sanderson. As they grew older, this 
gentle commerce of the affections went gradually forward. Every 
species of traffic hath its tokens, and pond lilies and sprigs of fennel 
were frequently exchanged for the sweetest smiles and the earliest 
roses. This era of innocent, and, to the parties themselves, almost 
unintelligible love, had long passed away. They were, in good 
time, betrothed to each other, with the approbation of their friends, 
and were looking forward to the day, when Peter should attain 
the age of twenty-one, as the day of their marriage. 

“ I have said, that the Sandersons were the richest people in our 
village, notwithstanding they were dependent upon the sweat of 
their brows for their daily bread ; but it was the bread of cheerful- 


AS A MEDICINE. 


225 


nessi, honestly obtained and grratefully partaken. They were sur- 
ronndod by wealthier neighbors, in the parlance of the world , but 
they themselves were preeminently in possession of that, which the 
world can neither give nor take away, peace of mind — contentment 
with the allotments of Providence. I have never witnessed a more 
interesting family. The old man has often told me, that, from the 
period when he Mms first married, and commenced, under his own 
roof, that practice of family prayer, which he had adopted after the 
example of his own parents, he had never supplicated Pleaven for 
any other riches, than such as he could carry with him to another 
and a better world. He had prayed, that he might be permitted to 
bring up his children in the love of virtue, and the fear of God. 
‘ You see,’ said this old man to me, ‘ you see how mercifully the 
Lord has answered my prayer. He has continued my health, and 
with the assistance of my son, I have been enabled to pay my rent, 
and to lay by a trifle, from year to year, which may be of use to me, 
when I can toil no longer. I have perfect confidence that Gcd will 
not forsake me in my old age. I have ever feared,’ said this good 
old man, ‘ that I should not be able to resist the temptation of great 
worldly riches, and, while God has given me enough, yet, as he 
knows whereof I am made, he hath given me no more. He hath 
not led me into that very temptation, by which I have ever been 
persuaded, that I should most easily be overthrown.’ 

“ The unruffled calm that reigned in their dwelling had become a 
proverb. I do not believe, that any human being ever heard a bois- 
terous word or an unkind expression beneath their roof. It seemed 
to be the constant study of every member of the family to contribute, 
as far as possible, to the happiness of all the rest. 

“ A French archbishop, upon a visit to a poor curate, was sur- 
prised at the very expensive repast, prepared for him by so poor a 
man. He chid the curate for his extravagance, and inquired, by 
what means he could consistently spread such a table. The poor 
man replied, in his defence, that he was desirous of testifying his 
tespect for the archbishop, and assured him,, that he could well 
•ifford the charge, for he kept bees. He then conducted the arch- 
bishop into an extensive apiary, or establishment for bees. He 
,eadily explained, that the pasturage of these flying herds cost him 
iothing ; that the time, devoted to the care of the whole establish- 
ment, was nothing more than a reasonable amount abstracted for 
fec/eation after the spiritual care of his flock ; and that the profit 
was very considerable. After this visit, whenever the archbishop 
encountered any of his curates, who complained of their poverty, he 
gave his counsel, in two brief words. ‘ Keep hees.' I will now give 


226 


AS A MEDICINE. 


you the applici.tion of this short story : Whenever the good old 
clergyman of our village was compelled to listen to the bickerings 
between husbands and wives, he would bid them learn a lesson of 
the Sandersons. Whenever he heard any of his parishioners repin- 
ing at the scanty allotments of Providence, he would bid them look 
at old Sanderson. Whenever he visited any one, who, if I may 
use the expression, was moving upon the railway to the drunkard’s 
grave, just entering, perhaps, upon the track at a moderate rate, and 
who believed, that he could not shoe an ox, or sit cross-legged on a 
tailor’s bench, or use a jack-plane, or turn a furrow, without a daily 
allowance of intoxicating liquor, he bade him think of old Sander- 
son. Whether his parishioners were disposed, or not, to govern 
their motions accordingly, old Sanderson had certainly, in a moral 
and a spiritual sense, become the fuglar of the parish. 

Peter Sanderson had nearly attained the age of one-and-twenty 
years, when an accident befell him in the course of his agricultural 
employment, which threatened to deprive his old father of his ser- 
vices, for a considerable period. As he was standing, barefooted, 
upon the barn-floor, a pitchfork fell perpendicularly from the hay- 
mow, and one of the prongs passed entirely through his foot, between 
the upper bones of the great and second toe, causing such severe 
pain, that he fainted almost immediately. His old father, who was 
near at hand, with the assistance of a neighbor, removed him to the 
house, and placed him on his bed. I was sent for, and being en- 
gaged from home, I did not arrive until the afternoon, about four 
hours after the accident. I found a very considerable amount of 
inflammation, accompanied with sharp, shooting pains, extending to 
the knee. Very little blood had flowed from the wound. I directed 
him to make use of such applications as are commonly employed in 
such cases. Upon my visit the next day, I found the pain and 
inflammation were greatly abated, and I looked forward to a speedy 
cure. I did not visit him again for the space of four or five days. 
During my absence, three elderly females of the parish had visited 
my patient, held a consultation upon his case, and put him upon an 
entirely different course. When I visited him again, his appearance 
was materially altered. Swelling and inflammation had returned, 
and his symptoms indicated the approach ol h regular fever. One 
of these philanthropic practitioners had persuaded poor Peter San- 
derson, that I had kept him too low, and prevailed upon him to take 
a little roast pork ; another had advised him to keep his foot and 
leg continually soaked in New England rum ; and a third was actu- 
ally engaged, at the very moment of my arrival, in preparing half a 
mug of toddy to keep up the sp’rits of the invalid The first and 


AS A MEDICINE. 


227 


the last of these prescriptions I forbade, in the most peremptory 
manner. But these three old ladies, and even Sanderson and his 
wife, w ere so entirely satisfied of the efficacy of New England rum 
as an external application in such cases, that I gave my consent to 
its employment in this manner, though well enough persuaded, that 
it was in uO respect essential to his cure. The foot and leg were 
now so much inflamed, that I readily foresaw we might not be able 
to effect a cure, before weeks and perhaps months should have 
passed away. 

I was, unfortunately, correct in my opinion. At the expiration 
of three months, the foot and leg were in a much worse conditica 
than when I was first called in ; and the patient seemed to be labor- 
ing under the effect of a slow fever, for the removal of which my 
very best efforts appeared to be ineffectual. During this period the 
old man’s health appeared to be exceedingly good ; and, with such 
assistance as the affbction and respect of his neighbors induced them 
to afford him from time to time, he continued to conduct the affairs 
of his little farm, as successfully as ever. He often said to me, that 
it seemed as though the Lord had renewed his youth, and given him 
strength for the emergency ; and he doubted not, that, in good time, 
Peter would be restored to him again. 

“ About this period old Sanderson’s wife was taken suddenly ill, 
and died of an affection of the heart. The old man bore this afflic- 
tion apparently with Christian resignation. ‘ Whether I consider 
the past or the future,’ said he to me, on the day after the funeral, 
‘ I have reason for gratitude to God. — Tabitha and I have lived 
long and most happily together, and I feel that we shall meet ere 
long in a better world.’ 

“ From time to time, as I visited at the house, I thought I observed 
that the old gentleman’s spirits were failing ; indeed he appeared so 
exceedingly dejected upon certain occasions, that I began to appre- 
hend his prediction, in relation to himself, would ere long be verified. 
For many weeks, I knew not how to reconcile his apparent melan- 
choly with that Christian resignation to the will of God, which he 
always professed to feel, whenever the late bereavement became a 
topic of conversation between us. In a conference with our good 
clergyman, he suggested his opinion, that the old man’s spirits were 
depressed in consequence of the long-continued illness of his son ; 
and, with this impression, I, one day, adverting to this affliction, 
inquired of him if he found it a more difficult task to bear God’s 
dealings upon the present occasion, than upon the former. He burst 
into tears ; and, when he had in some measure regained his self 
possesion — ‘ Doctor,’ said he, ‘ if it were God’s will, that I should 


228 


AS A MEDICINE. 


Dury my son in a shameless grave, instead of following the common 
order of nature and goisg before him, I could bow submissively to 
God’s holy will ; but my heart is full of anguish,’ said he, with deep 
emotion, ‘ when I contemplate the bare possibility of my son s be- 
coming an intemperate man.’ A multitude of little circumstances 
immediately occurred to my recollection, and I was surprised, that 
I had never combined them before, in this connection. I perceived, 
that there was something to apprehend, although, when I reflected 
upon the manner in which Peter had been brought up by his parents, 
I could scarcely suppose, that this excellent young man would be 
numbered among the victims of this modern Juggernaut. I entered,* 
at once, very freely and fully into the subject of the old man’s fears. 
Peter had been now, for a long time, confined to his chamber ; and 
with very little occupation, beside the care of his wounded limb. 
New England rum, which had been thought necessary for the pur- 
pose of bathing his foot and leg, had been ever in his apartment. 
His hands, his bed-clothes, his apparel, and every part of his room 
were constantly filled with the aroma. The jug — the false god — 
had been ever at his elbow, and the poor votary, at last, had fallen 
down and worshipped with his lips. A very natural inquiry may 
be made, in the present case, whether poor Peter’s relish for intoxi- 
cating liquor did or did not arise in the sense of smelling. I have 
heard a reformed drunkard declare, that, under the obligation of his 
pledge, he was abundantly able to resist the importunities of his 
associates, when they urged him to take a dram, 'yet he had been 
well nigh overthrown, upon more than one occasion, in his efforts 
to keep his good resolution, by the smell of their breath. 

“ Whatever might have been the philosophy, it was too manifest, 
that no doubt remained in relation to the fact. Unwatched, unre- 
stricted, utterly without employment, this unfortunate young man 
had evidently contracted a fatal relish for intoxicating drink, or, to 
use your own very forcible and accurate expression, Mr. Joslyn, he 
had become inoculated; and the passion for liquor had made a pro- 
digious head-way, before I had any suspicion of its existence. It 
had, in a very brief space, wrought so effectually upon his naturally 
amiable temper and good feelings, that my earnest expostulations 
were manifestly productive of very little effect. 

“ I expressly forbade even the external employment of spirit any 
longer, and accordingly it was laid aside. About a fortnight after 
this prohibition, though his wound had degenerated into a fever- 
sore, which rendered exercise exceedingly painful, he actually 
walked two miles to the dram-shop, for the gratification of this ter- 
rible appetite, and returned home evidently under the influence of 


AS A MEDICINE. 


2!29 


liquor. I have never witnessed a more rapid declension from this 
common cause of mischief and misery. Beer, cider, and every other 
means, for producing the wished-for stimulus, were resorted to by 
this infatuated young man. In the course of six months he had 
become an emaciated cripple, the very reverse of the hale, robust, 
young farmer that he was, before this unfortunate employment of 
spirit as a medicine. The effect of this domestic calamity upon old 
Sanderson was very apparent. His spirits were now entirely 
broken, and he looked forward to a speedy termination of his earthly 
career Whenever I urged, as an argument, the unhappiness, 
which he had caused his father, Peter would shed tears very freely ; 
and I generally found, that, upon all such occasions, he contrived 
shortly after to soothe his own sorrow with a dram. 

“For some time after it had become matter of almost universal 
i.otoriety, that Peter Sanderson was an intemperate man, there 
remained one determined unbeliever in the parish — Fanny Weston 
— poor Fanny Weston, who never did anything by halves, and who 
had given Peter Sanderson her whole heart, when it was as pure 
and confiding as youth and innocence could make it. All sorts of 
hints and innuendoes, the promptings alike of malice and of charity, 
were utterly lost upon Fanny. Peter himself — and beloved her 
better than any earthly thing, excepting his jug — was extremely 
careful, while under the influence of its contents, never to cross her 
path : and she herself, taking counsel of her fond hopes, settled 
down into the firm conviction, that the world was full of tale-bear- 
ers, and that Peter Sanderson was, beyond all doubt, a much mjured 
man. Ignorant, perhaps, of the fact, that there are pale drunkards 
as well as red ones, she constantly referred to his appearance in this 
respect, as a refutation of the slander. When any one referred to 
his staggering gait, she readily accounted for that, by referring to 
the wound, which had disabled him from walking as uprightly as 
formerly. When some importunate friend called her attention to 
his breath, she repelled the suggestion, by saying that it was noth- 
ing but the spirit upon his hands or apparel, and that he had used 
it as a medicine. Poor girl ! Her attachment was certainly wor- 
thy of a better object. Among those, who were whiling to save her 
from casting herself away upon a worthless young man, I myself 
oelieved that I had a duty to perform. I therefore gave her my 
opinion very frankly, but without producing any other effect than a 
feeling of displeasure toward myself. The very strength of this 
attachment, placed as it was upon an object so entirely undeserving, 
impelled me the more eagerly to find means for convincing this inter- 
esting girl of her mistake, before she should become irretrievably 

VOL. II. 20 


230 


AS A MEDICINE. 


lost. I did not press my opinion and my counsel at that time ; but 
a month had not elapsed before a suitable opportunity presented 
itself, for the execution of my plan, which, although it may seem 
harsh, at first view, was adopted with a conviction, that nothing less 
efficacious would produce the intended result. There was a militia 
muster in our village, and, in the afternoon, I called in my v*:haise at 
the house, where Fanny Weston resided ; and, as she had not been 
well, I invited her to take a short ride with me and look at the sol- 
diers. I drove to a part of the field, where, a short time before, I 
had seen Peter Sanderson in a state of intoxication. As we drew 
near the spot, our attention was attracted by the shouts of some men 
and boys, who were amusing themselves with the absurd behavior 
of a drunken man. I drove directly to the spot. A single glance 
was enough — ‘ Good Heaven !’ she exclaimed, ‘ it is Peter Sander- 
son!’ — The poor girl burst into a flood of tears. — I immediately 
turned away from the spot, and we rode home without uttering a 
syllable to each other. 

“ Fanny Weston was really an excellent young woman, and those 
holy principles, which had formed so essential a part of her simple, 
though substantial education, proved to her a sufficient life-boat 
amid these troubled waters.’ This painful experiment resulted pre- 
cisely as I wished. She sent a message to Peter Sanderson, the 
very next day, by a confidential friend, informing him of her decis- 
ion, that he must think of her no more. He earnestly entreated, 
that she would meet him once again. To this she agreed, upon 
condition that their interview should be in the presence of a single 
witness. They met, and poor Peter was greatly abashed, when he 
found she had selected our excellent clergyman. The good old man 
assured me he never was more affected in his life. She told the 
poor fellow, that, notwithstanding his misconduct, she freely con- 
fessed her weakness, that she loved him tenderly as the playmate 
of her early years, and as one, with whom she had expected to be. 
connected by the most tender of all human ties ; but that she had 
not the courage to tempt the vengeance of Heaven, by embarking 
upon the voyage of life with an intemperate man ; that she had 
gathered, with her own eyes, the evidence of his evil habit ; and 
that he must now think of her no more. He shed tears very freely, 
confessed his errors, and promised amendment, if she would permit 
him to contiF.o3 his visits. ‘ It will be of no service to you, Peter,’ 
said she, ‘ and it will make me, if possible, more wretched than I 
am to see you any more, unless you entirely refoim.’ She gave 
utterance to nothing more but a last farewell and a flood of bittet 
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AS A MEDICINl^ 


231 


“ Here was much human suffering produced by the employment 
of spirit, as a medicine ; and I resolved, at that time, to make no 
use of it whatever, unless in cases of unavoidable necessity, if such, 
in my sober judgment, should ever occur. 

“ Upon the occasion, to which I have referred, Peter Sanderson 
assured our good clergpnan, in the most solemn manner, that he 
would never take another drop. About a week from that time, he 
was brought home drunk to his father's house. About three 
months after this occurrence, old Sanderson paid the debt of nature, 
upon which occasion Peter wept very fluently, and renewed all his 
vows of amendment. In less than three days, his tears were dried 
up, and his vows again were broken. In addition to his natural 
anxiety in relation to the miserable prospects of this intemperau? son, 
old Sanderson expressed to me his solicitude respecting his daugh- 
ter, whom I mentioned before, and who was altogether helpless. 
Farmer Blaney was sitting at his bed-side, and, taking the hand of 
his dying friend in his own, ‘ I should be loath,’ said he, ‘ to see the 
righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging bread.’ It was enough. 
Farmer Blaney was not a man of idle words. A faint smile beamed 
upon the features of old Sanderson ; and, after his decease, his crip- 
pled daughter was taken home by the worthy farmer, and has lived 
under his hospitable roof to the present day. OTd Sanderson left 
just enough to square his accounts with the present world. ‘ He 
would have left much more,’ said our worthy clergyman, ‘ if he had 
not been so very desirous of laying up treasure in heaven.’ 

“ After the death of old Sanderson, the landlord took possession 
of the little farm, and the path now seemed to be open between 
Peter and the poor-house. He was, or conceived himself to be. 
unable to work, and his habit of intemperance increased upon him 
daily. He became a most miserable sot, and was, in due time, cat- 
alogued among the town’s poor. Unfortunately, it was the practice 

in the village of , at the period to which I refer, to furnish a 

certain quantity of ardent spirit to the inmates of the poor-house, 
upon a supposition, whose absurdity is now thoroughly understood, 
that it was essential for the preservation of their health and strength. 
Of course the tippler’s habit continued unbroken. The relish 
for liquor remained, ready to break forth in unlimited indulgence, 
upon the very first convenient opportunity. The intemperate 
man had therefore no chance, after a period of total abstinence, 
whether voluntary or otherwise, of taking a new departure for the 
voyage of life. Peter Sanderson’s constitution was naturally a good 
one, and he always grew better, upon that limitation in the measure 
and frequency of his drams, enjoined in such establishments, for the 


23S 


AS A MEDICINE. 


government of paupers ; and yet, as I have already said, he novel 
had an opportunity of conquering the habit entirely, becauoo .he 
daily allowance, however comparatively small, was quite enough to 
perpetuate the passion for strong drink. Three or four times, dur- 
ing the very long period of degradation, through which he has 
passed, he has so far recovered his strength and decent appeaiance, 
that, upon his earnest request, he has been permitted to come forth 
into the world, and support himself by his own labor. Before many 
weeks, however, he has fallen into his former courses ; and, after 
repeated instances of grovelling drunkenness, has been again com- 
mitted to the poor-house. The very same result has been produced, 
in ten thousand examples, and will continue to be produced, so hnig 
as temperance is accounted a task of easier performance than total 
abstinence. In many of our poor-houses, at the present day, a dif- 
ferent system is adopted. By the enforcement of total abstinence 
upon fheir inmates, these establishments have become, wherever that 
principle is adopted, not only receptacles for paupers, but asylums 
for the intemperate. Under the discipline of the regular physician, 
the curative process consists in nothing more than a sufficient supply 
of good, wholesome food, and an entire privation of the means of 
drunkenness in^every form. Occasionally, in extreme cases, seda- 
tives may be employed, to allay that irritation of the stomach, which 
almost universally occurs, when the long-accustomed stimulus is 
wiihholden. This painful trial is not, however, of long duration, 
and the hankering after intoxicating liquor finally wears itself away. 
The patient has then an opportunity of deciding for himself, with the 
experience of the past fairly before him, if it be the part of wisdom, 
to make the miserable experiment again ; and he is able thus to decide, 
unembarrassed by the gnawings of that terrible appetite, which the 
forcible restraint, imposed by the regulations of the poor-house, had 
brought into subjection. 

“ Peter Sanderson, as I have told you, was in the midst of his 
miserable career, at a period when this wholesome discipline was 
unknown in our houses of refuge for the poor. The practice of that 
day served, just as effectually, to perpetuate the habit of intemper- 
ance, as though it had been skilfully contrived for the accomplish- 
ment of that very object. For nine or ten years, he continued in 
this miserable course ; occasionally, when in his worst estate, rather 
resembling a travelling corpse than a living man ; and. now and 
then, especially after emerging from the poor-house, upon promise 
of amendment, bearing some little resemblance to himself in better 
days. During this whole period, he appeared to retain a sentiment 
of respe<'.t for no human being, save one. He treated the admonitions 


AS A MEDICINE. 


m 


of our good clergyman with contempt ; and, whenever t made an 
e.lviit lO stop him on the road, and converse with him, on the sub- 
jeci cf his abominable habit, he would frequently reply with inso- 
lence, or laugh in my face. But there was one person, in relation 
to whom, he appeared, during the period cf his lowest degradation, to 
cherish sentiments of affection and respect. He has been known, 
when reeling along upon the highway, to throw himself over the 
wall, at the sight of Fanny Weston, and remain concealed, until 
she had passed by. Upon one occasion, when he had been directed, 
with a gang of hands from the poor-house, to repair a portion of the 
road which lay in front of the house, in which Fanny resided, he 
earnestly entreated the overseer to give him employment elseu here. 

“ Poor P'anny's heart was well nigh broken by this bitter disap- 
pointment. After she had composed her spirits, and was enabled to 
look upon the matter in a just light, she thanked me, with many 
tears, for my interposition in her behalf ; and admitted, although the 
process seemed harsh at the time, that nothing, short of just such 
testimony as she thus obtained, would probably have convinced her 
of the real truth, until her incredulity had produced her ruin. For 
a long time, she mingled rarely with the society of the village ; she 
lost her bloom, and gave some indications of falling into a decline. 
At length, although her spirits had evidently received a shock, from 
which they were not likely to recover, she sought a solace in the 
performance of such duties, as were ever consonant with her gentle 
nature. She engaged in all the charitable and benevolent opera- 
tions in our village. She still retained an unusual share of personal 
beauty; and, when it was known, that she had cast off Peter San- 
derson, more than one of our village swains made proposals of mar- 
riage, far more eligible in regard to this world’s goods and gear. 
Jn a mild and respectful manner, she declined them all. It was a 
matter of surprise, that she refused the addresses of Major Barton, 
one of the likeliest and wealthiest young farmers in our country. 
After that, it was taken for granted, that Fanny Weston was 
resolved to live single and to die so. 

“ It was about ten years after Peter Sanderson’s first employment 
of spirit, as a medicine, that the earliest efforts of the Temper- 
ance Society commenced in our village. The first address, in our 
parish, was delivered by an individual, who had himself been an 
mtemperate man. In the most simple language, and in a manner 
irresistible, from the fact that every word proceeded from the 
speaker’s heart, and was the voice of experience, this honest and 
earnest advocate recited his own impressive history. He spoke 
with deep feeling of his early religious education, of the formation 

VOL. II. 20 * 


234 


AS A MEDICINE. 


of his habit, of the unhappiness, which he had inflicted upon his old 
father and mother, of his degraded and profligate career, of his 
reformation by the process of total abstinence, and of his return to 
the paths of respectability and usefulness. Peter Sanderson had 
been carried to the meeting by a rum-seller, in the hope and expec- 
tation of producing some disturbance, and interrupting the speaker. 
But the rum-seller had reason to exclaim, upon that occasion, that 
God’s ways are not as our i^ays. Some well-directed shaft passed 
through the sinner’s heart. He sat in such a position, that I had a 
perfect view of his features. When the speaker feelingly alluded 
to his own religious education, and to the misery, which he had 
caused his own respectable parents, Peter Sanderson wept like a 
child. Verily, thought I, there is a worm that never dies! After 
the speaker had concluded, those, who were disposed to sign the 
pledge, were requested to remain. Among the number I was 
delighted to observe poor Peter, though evidently with some irreso- 
lution in his manner, approaching the table. One and another 
placed their names upon the roll ; — the pen was handed to Peter ; 
— he took it with considerable hesitation. — ‘Do you think, sir,’ 
said he, ‘ it will enable me to give it up?’ — ‘ There is no doubt of 
it,’ replied the lecturer ; ‘ it has been my salvation, and, by God's 
help, it will be yours.’ — At that moment, I heard the rum-seller’s 
yoice calling Sanderson from the door-way of the church. — ‘ Think 
of your good old father,’ said I, in a whisper. It had the desired 
effect ; he bent over the table, and with a steadier hand than I had 
given him the credit for possessing, he subscribed the temperance 
pledge. It excited a mingled feeling of pleasure and surprise, in 
the minds of several, who were present upon that occasion, that, 
while Peter Sanderson was the last of forty-seven, who had joined 
the society that evening, the very first name upon the roll should be 
that of Fanny Weston. 

“ There were not a few^ who gave poor Peter credit for having 
undertaken, upon the impulse of the moment, much more than he 
was likely to perform. I happened to be near him, when, upon 
leaving the meeting-house, he mingled with his associates at the 
door. — ‘ What a confounded fool you are!’ said one. — ‘Didn’t 
think you ’d get cotch’d with their priestcraft so easy,’ said another.— 
' So you ’ve sign’d away your liberty, Peter,’ said a third. — ‘ How 
long d'ye think ye ‘11 stick to ’t, Sanderson?’ said a fourth. — ‘I 
don’t reckon cold water ’ll suit sich a kind o’ stomach as yours is, 
Peter, I don't raaly,’ said a fifth. — ‘ Come, Peter,’ said the rum- 
seller, ‘ if you 'll jest go back and take off your name like a man, 
oflf o that are ridic’lous paper, I ’ll give ye a quart o’ the very best 


AS A MEDICINE. 


336 


in my store, for nothin.’ — Peter stood still, without saying a word. 
— ‘ Come, come along,’ cried the rum-seller ; ‘ I ’ll go in with ye, 
Peter.’ — 1 felt quite uncertain as to the result, until the poor fel- 
low, mustering up the sum-total of his resolution, stamped his foot 
upon the steps of the meeting-house, and, putting his mouth close 
to the rum-seller’s ear, roared out in a voice of thunder, I tell ye I 
won’t.’ — ‘Then,’ cried the rum-seller, ‘I’ll sue ye for what ye 
owe me to-morrow !’ — ‘ Sue away,’ said Peter ; ‘ it ’s better to go 
to jail, than to go the devil, over your threshold ; — so good night, 
Mr. Gilpin.’ The poor fellow turned upon his heel, and walked olf 
at a round pace. He was not aware that I was near him, at the 
time, and overheard this conversation. I resolved to have an eye 
upon his movements. I observed a person moving towards him in 
the dark, wno presently took him by the arm, and, leading him 
aside, appeared to be conversing with him in an earnest manner. 
Suspecting that some one of his associates was endeavoring to 
divert him from his plan of amendment, I walked directly towards 
them. I was most agreeably surprised to find, in the person, whom 
1 had supposed to be an evil counsellor, one of the worthiest of our 
citizens, who had himself joined the society that evening. ‘ There 
is nothing, doctor,’ said he, ‘ which I may not say in your hearing ; 
you know I own the little farm, upon which our old friend Sander- 
son lived so long. I have just told Peter, that if he is really in 
earnest, and will keep his promise, he is as well able to manage it 
as any man, and that he may take it on the same terms, upon which 
I leased it to his father for so many years, and that I will loan him a 
small sum to set him forward ; but that, as all things are uncertain, 
he must first give us some good reason to believe him sincere. I 
tell him, therefore, that he may come and work- for me for six 
months, and I ’ll allow him fair wages ; and if Gilpin sues him, as 
he threatens to, 1 ’ll see to it.’ — ‘ Well, Peter,’ said I, ‘ what do 
you say to Farmer Mason’s liberal offer?’ — Peter made no reply 
for some time, and, when I repeated the question, — ‘ I ’ll come 
sir,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘ Very well,’ said Farmer Mason, 
and bade us good night. ‘ Peter,’ said I, ‘ why did you not thank 
him for his kind offer?’ — ‘ Bless your heart, doctor,’ cried the poor 
felbw, ‘ why, I could n’t speak ; I did n’t think he ’d trust me with 
an old shovel.’ 

“ Gilpin kept his word, and the sheriff, who had a writ for Peter, 
before breakfast on the following morning, was surprised, after an 
ineffectual search in all his accustomed haunts, to find him busily 
at work among the hired men at Farmer Mason’s. The worthy 
farmer became Peter’s bail, and requested the sheriff to inform Gil- 


23a 


AS A MEDICINE. 


pin, who was his tenant, that, being himself now a member of th« 
Temperance Society, he could lease his tenement no longer to a 
dealer in intoxicating liquor. 

“ The six probationary months had passed away. Peter Sander- 
son had not only kept his promise most faithfully, but he had recov- 
ered his health, strength, and good looks, in a surprising degree. — 
But I perceive,” said the physician, “ that the storm is passing off 
and, as we shall probably separate ere long, I will bring my little 
narrative to a close. Farmer Mason performed his promise, and 
Peter was now reinstated upon the farm, where every rood of 
ground was full of the associations of his early days. You will 
scarcely suppose, that Fanny Weston was an unconcerned speculator 
of this extraordinary change — this moral resurrection. When 
she first saw Peter Sanderson, after his reformation, decently clad, 
and with a countenance already free from those marks and numbers, 
which so commonly belong to the votaries of intemperance, the 
shock was more than she could bear. The poor girl was obliged to 
quit the meeting-house and return home. They had both-, in earlier 
times, belonged to the village choir. After Peter, by his good con- 
duct, had won back the respect and confidence of his old associates, 
they invited him to resume his former station among them. When 
he accepted the invitation, Fanny found it convenient to occupy a 
seat in her pew. Those, who knew her least, imputed this act to 
an unwillingness to continue among the choir in company with 
Peter Sanderson. — They were mistaken. 

“ One day, — it was rather more than a year after Peter’s refor- 
mation, — she was sitting at her needle-work, in company with the 
connection, in whose house she resided, — ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘ if 
Peter Sanderson ever thinks of me now ?’ — I happened to enter the 
room at that moment, and her aunt, with an intelligent smile, 
repeated the question in my hearing. ‘ Fanny,’ said I, ‘ I am in- 
clined to think he does. I have heard him say, that he had not 
the courage to come and see you, but that he would cheerfully 
serve a longer term for you than Jacob served for Rachel.’ — The 
poor girl buried her face in her hands, while the tears flawed freely 
between her fingers. ‘ Fanny,’ said I, ‘ I have been unwilling to 
tell you this, until I had good reason to believe, that Peter’s refor- 
mation V as perfectly sincere ; and until I had ascertained something 
of your own feelings in regard to him. Shall I tell him that he 
may venture to come hereP She turned her eyes toward me with 
a faint smile, and cast them on the ground.” 

“ Mister,” said the man with the asthma, “ that are story ’s raal 
natur. — I want to hear the eend on ’t, but the sun ’s a comin out 


AS A MEDICINE. 


!!JS7 

•ver the mountains, and I must be jog^ging along. ’ — “I tvill bring 
it to a close,” said the physician. “ Peter Sanderson and Fanny 
AVeston met once more. They renewed their vows. — In due time 
they were married ; and I know not the wedded pair, who have 
enjoyed a larger share of happiness, than has fallen to their lot, for 
the period of seven years. Let us not, however, forget that ten 
years of their existence had been rendered miserable by the employ- 
ment of intoxicating liquor, as a medicine, which, for one that it may 
possibly have cured, has killed its thousands.” — “No, no,” cried 
the ma.i with the asthma, “don’t let’s forgit that — if ’twan’t for 
my asthma, I ’d leave it off, sartin. Won’t ye put the bits in my 
mare’s mouth, Mr. Joslynl” — “If ’twan’t for my cold stomach, 
I ’d leave it off too,” said Atherton. — “Well,” said Joslyn, “ I ’d 
leave of}' the traffic in a minnit, if folks wouldn't buy no more on ’t.” 
— “I’ve heer’d Squire Pronk say,” said one of the group, “that 
he’d leave it off, if Miss Pronk would.” — “Yes,” said another, 
“ and I ’ve heer’n Miss Pronk say, she ’d leave it off, if the squire 
would.” — “ Well, now,” cried the woman with the crutch, “ that 
story ’s enough for me. I ’d leave off spirit now, right away, if 
’twan’t for my leg.” 

The company now began to disperse ; and, having obtained the 
good doctor’s permission to present this temperance tale to the pub 
lie, I replaced my family in the carriage, and, taking a last glance of 
the lofty peaks of Agiocochook, now once more illuminated by the 
sun, we directed our course toward the valley. About ten miles 
upon our way, we overtook the itinerant pupil of M ’Clyster and 
Son, the pharmacopoly pedler, laboring onward under his burden of 
merchandise. “It’s the puttekerry jontleman fro’ Waterford,” 
cried Thomas, as we drew near to him. I hailed him from the 
coach-window, and advised him to give up his present business, and 
turn honest man. He said nothing, until the carriage had begun to 
descend the hill, when he made a reply, which I could not under- 
stand. “What does the pedler say?” I inquired. “He says, 
your honor,” cried Thomas, “that it’s not the like o’ yoursilf 
that ’ll bate him oot o’ the idee that it ’s not the hist thing in the 
warld, as a midicine. Now, if your honor ’s agraable to it,” con- 
tinued Thomas, reining up his horses as he spoke, “ I ’ll jist be 
after bating it oot o’ the felly mysilf.” — “Drive on, honest 
Thomas,” said I. — Crack went the whip, and the pedler was soon 
^r behind. 


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THE PEOPHETS! 

WHERE ARE THEY’ 


Th* foliowing: brief narrative might well enough be submitted without any prefatory retiark. 
A few words may suffice. As there is no species of intoxicating beverage which has not proaiiced 
a.ucb drunkonness upon the earth, there can be no perfect work of reformation, upon any other 
princ.ple than that of total abstinence ; and with this perfectly intelligible principle before us, few 
thinp can appear more amusing than the self complacent wine-drinkei s predictions of the rum* 
drinker's rum. We have heard the inveterate sipper of anisette foretell the destruction of tha 
guzzler of beer; who, in his turn, has prognosticated the very same fate for some thirsty neighbors, 
whose potations of cider were neither few nor far between. Such prophecies are not uncommon — 
they are not unfrequently fulfilled — and the parties concerned are occasionally members of temper- 
ance societies of the old rigime. 


The husbandman, who gathers the burden of his threshing-door 
too hastily into his garner, may be expected to collect the wheat 
and a portion of the chaff together. That desertion from the 
temperance ranks, which the friends of this holy cause are not 
unfrequently called to lament, arises, in part, from an inconsiderate 
zeal for numerical ’display. It was the fashion, rather more a few 
years since than it is at present, to rate the powers and the profit- 
ableness of an advocate in this Christian enterprise, by the number 
of signatures, which he had obtained to the temperance pledge ; just 
as we estimate the valor of an Indian brave by the number of his 
scalps. Not many years ago, a single individual is reported to have 
obtained no less than ten thousand signatures in a single city, — the 
product of a few weeks’ labor. But, after no slight examination of 
the matter, I am inclined to believe, that the evaporation of a large 
proportion of this temperance host may be well compared to the 
disappearance of Xenophon’s ten thousand from the plains of 
Cunaxa. 

The great end in view is the production of a change in public 
sentiment. This is the work of years — the result of a steadily 
continued process of moral indoctrination. The pledge is an instru- 
ment of infinite importance in the temperance cause ; but it may 
w ill be doubted, if it should ever be given or received, in a moment 
ol excitement. It is surely a solemn obligation. The premise is 
oriinarily made in the presence of a large assembly, and in the house 
of God. It is not my design to institute a comparison between the 
temperance pledge and the eucharistal obligation ; but there is 


240 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY1 


enough of analogy, inasmuch as both are solemn bonds, to authorize 
a single interrogatory — Should we approve the wisdom of a clergy- 
man, who, having preached an exhortation to his people to join the 
church, immediately after closing his notes, and while the congre- 
gation were under high excitement, despatched his agents with pen, 
ink, and paper for their signatures. Upon all matters of impor- 
tance, judges take time for deliberation, and juries consult together. 
If the subject be worth an elaborate argument, time — some four- 
aid-twenty hours at least — should in common courtesy be allowed 
for reflection, to those who are solicited to do an imporiaut act — to 
change a habit, possibly, of long continuance. 

Right or wrong, these were the sentiments of Major Marquee. 
He was an early friend of mine, until the age of four-and-twenty. 
We then reached a fork in the great highway of life; the major 
took one branch of it, and I another. He married an interesting 
widow, some ten years older than himself ; and, as Captain McGrath, 
a brother officer, ill-naturedly remarked, rather for her gold than 
her ivory; for, though she brought him an ample fortune, she had 
lost her teeth, or the greater part of them. Having entered into 
this matrimonial partnership. Major Marquee resigned his com- 
mission ; laid aside his epaulettes, of course ; paid off his old debts, 
by his wife’s particular desire ; and, having assumed the citizen’s 
dress, became one of a gentlemanly circle, who seemed to have 
associated upon the principle, that the chief end of man is to eat, 
drink, and be merry. 

There is commonly nothing of real happiness in marriage d la 
mode. The principal advantages, derived by the lady from this 
second connection, were the obligation to prepare an entertainment 
for the major’s friends, one day in every week, and to dine by herself 
the remaining six. They quarrelled, of course, and with wonderful 
regularity. The major, however, was a much-enduring man; and, 
probably from a consideration of his enlarged means, and the supe- 
rior comforts of his new condition, he still found a balance in his 
favor. This consideration, or some other cause, induced him to 
treat the partner of his joys and sorrows with a commendable spirit 
of forbearance. When she railed at the major for his late hours, 
he seldom retorted, but commonly whistled a quick march, and 
finished his bottle of Port or Madeira; and her curtain lectures, 
which never failed in the evening and the morning, he pleasantly 
called his tattoo and reveille. 

The major and his lady were prevailed upon by some of theii 
neighbors, whose ca^te in society was considered a safe conduct for 
the adventure, to attend a public lecture on the subject ol temper- 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE iRE THEY? 


241 


aitce. At the close of the evening', both of them, to the surprise of 
many of their friends, subscribed their names to the temperance 
pledge. The pledge of the society, of which the major and his lady 
were thus constituted members, was the old-fashioned pledge, the 
pledge of abstinence from ardent spirits alone, — a pledge, whose 
sufficiency for the occasions of the world, strange as it may appear 
to the philosophical friends of temperance, remains undoubted by 
many at the present day. 

“ Well, major,” said his lady, on their way home, “ I am truly 
rejoiced that you have joined the temperance society. It’s a good 
example to our servants, you know, my dear ; I wonder if our man 
Micajah was at the lecture!” — “ To be sure,” replied the major ; 
“ and he signed the pledge, though, ’pon honor, I thought he was 
a little tipsy. He came up to the table the very moment he saw 
me in the act of signing ; and, after he had scrawled his own name, 
he took up the inkstand, by mistake, for the sandbox, and poured 
the whole contents upon the paper, saving a small sprinkling that 
fell upon Doctor Driver's inexpressibles, and apparently without 
any consciousness of the mischief he was doing.” — “ I am really 
apprehensive, major,” continued his lady, “ that Micajah has signed 
the temperance pledge without sufficient reflection. It is a thing, 
which should not be done rashly, you know.’’ — “ O, certainly,” 
replied the major; “ but it will cost Micajah nothing: he tells me, 
and I believe him, that he never takes anything stronger than 
strong beer or porter.” — “Well, major,” rejoined his lady, “it 
may be so ; but he is constantly tipsy, more or less every day. 
The habit grows upon him, I am confident ; and I prophesy that 
Micajah will die a drunkard.” — “Pshaw, my dear,” cried the 
major; “so you prophesied that our fashionable friend, the young 
widow in Burley Place, would die a drunkard, and she is not dead 
yet.” — “ No, major, she is not dead,” replied the lady ; “ but she 
is a drunkard.” — “ Don’t believe it, ’pon honor,” cried the major, 
“not a word of it. — She drinks nothing but Champagne.” — 
“ Very like,” said Mrs. Marquee; “but she drinks all the Cham- 
pagne she can get, and is everlastingly quoting Dr. Twaddler’s 
opinion, that it is a harmless beverage. The other evening, when 
she was so far gone, as to be utterly unable to get into her carriage 
unassisted, she repeated over, a dozen times, ‘ It helps nutrition — 
it's all digested,' to the infinite amusement of those around he .’’ 
— “Well, that’s a sound doctrine,” rejoined the major; “I’m 
'J that opinion myself.” — “ Your arrack punch, major,” said his 
lady, “ you will have to give up, of course.” — “ Punch — arrack 
punch!” exclaimed the major, “ not at all-— ey — they can’t mean 

VOL. II. 21 


242 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY I 


to include punch — never thought of that, ♦hough. No, no, the 
pledge extends only to distilled spirits, taken clear, or in water, 
as grog. ’T was never intended to include punch, depend upon it.” 
— “ Your bitters and juleps you will certainly relinquish,” said the 
lady. — “ I never thought of them neither,” said he; “but I can’t 
suppose they mean to cut off a gentleman from his juleps. No, no, 
the whole design is to check the intemperance of common folks — 
that ’s it, my dear, that ’s it, and it ’s well enough for genteel people 
to favor the cause, by joining the society. That ’s the view I lake 
of the matter. Think of it a moment, and it will strike you in the 
same light, my love — don’t you see itl Besides, my dear, if the 
rule is to be construed so very strictly, it will be next to an impossi- 
bility to meet one’s friends upon the footing of common civility. 
[ ’m not sure, after all, that we have acted quite as wisely as we 
might have done, in putting our names so hastily to this pledge.” — 
“ I am rejoiced that we have,” replied the lady; “ we shall have no 
more punch in the morning, and less therefore of the company of 
Colonel Brunkle, and that noisy crew that is forever at his heels ; 
the sacrifice of your bitters will cost you nothing. Major Marquee ; 
and, as for entertaining our friends, we can get along charmingly 
with wine and cordials, you know.” — “Well said,” cried the 
major; “you never thought of your cordials, your noyeau, and 
your anisette, did you, my dear? ha, ha! — The account is likely 
to be pretty fairly balanced, I think, my dear, — ha, ha, ha!” — 
“ Cordials, my dear,” replied the lady, “ were not surely designed 
to be included in the temperance pledge.” — “And pray why not 
as much as juleps, my dear?” interrogated the major; his voice 
thickening, as it usually did, when he was losing his temper. — 
“Why not, my dear?” retorted the lady, “because — because — 
juleps are not cordials, to be sure. I should think you knew whai, 
juleps were, by this lime, my dear.” — “ Well, my dear,” cried the 
major, with an elevated voice, “ and if you don’t know what cordials 
are, by this time, I know not who does, my dear.” — “You had 
better raise your voice a little higher, that everybody in the street 
may hear you, my dear,” said the lady. — “ I don’t care a fig if 
they do, my dear,” cried the major, in a still louder note. — “For 
Heaven’s sake, don’t disgrace yourself in this manner, my dear,” 
#,aid the lady; “ Farmer Bockum and his family are close behind us, 
and. deaf as he is, he will surely overhear every word you say, my 
dear.” — “The devil take Farmer Bockum!” cried the major, in a 
voice loud enough to change the front of a whole battalion. — 
“ Hush, my dear,” cried the lady. — “ I won’t, my dear,” cried th« 
major. 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY? 


243 


It may have been remarked, by close observers upon the matri- 
monial relation, that, with certain couples, mated according to law, 
but miserably matched, the frequent use of words of endearment as 
infallibly foreruns a domestic squabble, as a day or two of soft 
weather, out of season, portend a storm. So long as the parties, 
' whom we have introduced to the reader, were contented to employ 
towards each other the formal appellations, major and madam, their 
intercourse was not likely to assume a belligerent aspect ; but the 
more familiar epithets, so frequently adopted on the present occa?- 
sion, if not actually weather-breeders, were, almost invariably, 
accompaniments of the tempest. 

The lady was right ; a portion of the major’s exclamation ot>- 
truded itself upon the ears of Farmer Bockum, deaf as he was. 
Happily, he did not catch that part of the major’s words, which so 
charitably commended the old farmer to the prince of darkness ; but, 
hearing his name so vehemently uttered in the major’s stentorian 
voice, he mended his pace, and, followed by his family, the farmer 
was almost immediately at his side. “ What ’s the matter, major!” 
he exclaimed. The major’s lady had a good share of self-posses- 
sion, on such occasions ; and, believing, although she was not happy 
in her marriage, that there was some satisfaction in keeping the 
secret, she resolved at once to give such a turn to the affair, as 
should keep her neighbors, the Bockums, whose curious and com- 
municative dispositions she well understood, entirely in the dark. 
She gave, herself, therefore, an immediate response to the farmer’s 
inquiry. “ Major Marquee and myself,” she replied, “ were doubt- 
ing whether punch was meant to be included in the temperance 
pledge, and we thought we would ask your opinion.” — “And 
cordials also,” said the major in a choleric tone of voice. — “ And 
juleps,” cried the lady; her temper for an instant, getting the bettei 
of her discretion. — “ Well, raally,” said the farmer, “ it ’s a leetle 
of a perplex, an’t il!” — “ Why, father,” cried his eldest daughter, 
Miss Dolly Bockum, “ how can you doubt about it? It ’s meant to 
include all distilled liquor.” — “What, rosewater!” cried old Mrs 
Bockum; “I vum. I’ll have my name off to-morrow.” — ‘"^No, 
no,” said Mrs. Marquee; “your daughter is mistaken; it is in- 
tended to include all distilled spirits.'^ — “ Well,” said the major, 
gruffly, “ are not cordials distilled spirits?” — “ I never heard so,” 
replied the lady. — “Nor I, neither,” said Mrs. Bockum; “I 
always thought they was a kind o’ metheglin.’’ — “Well now,” 
said the farmer, “ I never made any o’ that kind o’ sweet slipslop. 

' ’ve made cider brandy, and cider, boiled down to a third or so ’s, 
a good drink. Don’t s’pbse thero ’s anything in our pledge agin 


iU 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEYJ 


aich as them are. The hull differ seems to me to lie jist here ; rum, 
ind gin, and Scotch whiskey, and all them forrin sperets is what ’s 
meant in our pledge. But ’t was n’t meant to cut off sich drinks as 
«ve make at hum, arter our own fashin. If a body makes a leetle 
.uder brandy, or a leetle snakeroot, or a leetle rottifee, or sich like, 
ill done at hum, mind ye, I don’t see not a mite o’ harm in that. 
11 we was to give up them, ’t would be signing away our liberties 
vuh a vengeance. Now, major, I really don’t s’pose ’t would be 
>ut of the way, it you ’ve a mind to make your juleps or your punch 
jvitn some o’ my cider brandy, and I guess I can spare ye a barrel. 
Squire Tarbell gin me for ten gallons last week — he was a layin in 
Bonife jest afore he joined the society — he gin me, lets me see — ” 
— “No matter what he gave you,” cried the major impatiently. 
“ I tell you, neighbor Bockum, I ’d rather swallow a four-pound 
shot than one drop of your home-made trumpery ; so I bid you good 
night.’ 

Thei had arrived at a fork in the road, which necessarily led 
apart tci their respective dwellings ; and the parties accordingly 
separated, in no very amiable humor towards each other. — “ What 
an insufterable old fool,” said the major to his better half, when 
they had advanced a few rods upon their way, “ to suppose I would 
consent to drink his vile home-made stuff! It ’s strong enough, 
however, to fuddle a commodore. I ’ve seen the old fellow as boozy 
as a hum top, more than fifty times, upon his own abominable brew^- 
ings. Mark my word, that man will be a downright sot before he 
dies. The habit has been growing upon him for four or five years, 
very evidently. He seems to think the brandy can do him no harm, 
because he makes it himself, under his own roof. What an egre- 
gious idiot ! He takes it clear, or in water as grog, the very thing 
tne pledge is directed against ; and, because it is not foreign spirit, 
he appears to believe himself a consistent member of the temperance 
society. If he proceeds in this way, his conduct ought to be taken 
notice of in some way or other. Sooner or later, he ’ll die a sot ; 
you see if I am a false prophet, Mrs. Marquee. Upon reflection, 
myMear,” continued the major, after a short pause, “ I am not so 
sure, that the pledge is intended to include cordials any more than 
punch and juleps, which, I am quite certain, it was never designed 
to comprehend. I have been in the habit heretofore of taking a 
glass of brandy and water with a friend. I shall do this no more, 
of course ; for tiiis I account to be dram-drinking, the very thing, 
and the only thing, which the society aims to prevent.” — “ Well, 
major,” his lady replied, “ 1 am not perfectly sure, when I think 
more seriously of the whole matter, that your opinion is not a cor- 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY? 


246 


reel one I am confident as to cordials, and perhaj s you are righw 
in regal d to punch and juleps ; and if I have said anything hastily 
upon this subject, or in a moment of excitement, I would not have 
you consider it as my deliberate opinibn, my dear.” — “ Well, my 
dear,” said the major, “ cl.^s is just what I expected. I knew your 
excellent good sense would conduct you to a just conclusion. Punch, 
juleps, and cordials, my love, were no more intended to be compre- 
hended in the temperance pledge than wine- whey, or sack-posset, 
you may rely upon it.” — “I have no doubt of it, my dear,” replied 
the lady. In this agreeable humor they arrived at their own door ; 
and the major having taken a mint-julep, and the lady her glass of 
anisette, these interesting members of the temperance society retired 
to their repose. 

“If that isn’t bein perlite!” cried Farmer Buckum to his wife 
and daughters, as soon as they were out of the hearing of the major 
and his lady; “if that isn’t bein perlite! that ’s bein brought up 
jinteel, I s’pose. What did I say, I wants to know, that wasn’t as 
civil as need be 1 I offered to let him have a barrel o’ my cider 
brandy, and Squire Tarbell thought himself lucky enough to get no 
more than ten gallons on it ; and he ups and tells me to my face that 
it ’s trumpery, and that he would n’t swally a drap on ’t no more 
than he ’d swally a cartouch-box ; that ’s perlite, an’t it?” — “ No, 
no, father, he didn’t say anything about a cartouch-box,” cried 
Dolly Bockum ; “he said a four-pound shot.” — “I don’t care the 
vally of a rasher o’ bacon what he said ; it makes not a mite o’ 
differ which ’t was he swally’d ; he may swally ’em both, an he ’s 
a mind to, and be hang’d.” — “I reckon,” said the farmer’s wife, 
“ they ’d been a spatting on it.” “ I guess as though they ’d been 
at it,” said Miss Dolly ; “he seemed proper disgruntled, ’cause she 
twitted him about juleps and punch, and so he gin her a jab about 
cordials.” — “Well, no matter,” said the farmer; “that’s no 
reason why he should insult me right off as he did. Punch and 
juleps, to be sure ! he ’s a punchin and julepin day and night ; he a 
member of the temperance society ! I ’ve kept the run on him for 
a long spell, and, if he don’t get clean down to heel, and get to be 
a ^aal drunkard afore ten years is gone by, then I ’m no prophet.” 

The worthy farmer, as he entered his cottage, appeared to be 
essentially relieved by the outpouring of this merciful prediction, 
mingled, as it probably was, and as such predictions too frequently 
are, with no very faint hope of their ultimate verification. “ Well, 
Dolly,” said he, as he squared himself before the fire, with his feet 
upon the tops of the andirons, and his hands upon his knees, “ reach 
down that are decanter from the i pper shelf, and gi’ me a bicker, 

VOL. II 21* 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY? 


24 (? 

ducky ; let ’s try a leetle o’ that are trumpery — why, it ’s all gone. 
What ’s got it? Here, wife, what ’s come o’ the cider brandy that 
was in this ere decanter?” — “What’s come on’t?” cried the 
wife ; “ why, man, you ’re losing your memory ; don’t you remem- 
ber you drank it yourself?” — The old farmer’s memory was, 
indeed, somewhat impaired ; and the present was not the only occa- 
sion, upon which this faithful sharer of all his joys and sorrows had 
availed herself of the circumstance, to persuade him, that he himself 
had consumed the contents of his decanter, which she had, in fact, 
poured into her own keg of metheglin, for the purpose of advancing 
it somewhat nearer to the standard of Mrs. Marquee’s anisette. — 
“ Well, well, Dolly,” said the old man, “ run down, ducky, and fill 
it agin. I ’d no idee ’t was all gone, what was in the decanter ; I 
thought ’twas eenamost full.” — Dolly obeyed her father’s com- 
mands ; the replenished decanter was soon upon the table ; and the 
old farmer, for the space of half an hour, sipped and sang the praises 
of his cider brandy. His cheerful partner sat by his side, solacing 
herself with a glass of her favorite metheglin, secretly enforced ; 
anticipating the numerous advantages, which their village would 
derive from the establishment of the temperance society ; comment- 
ing upon the perilous effects of punch and juleps ; and perfectly 
concurring in her husband’s prophecy, that Major Marquee would 
die a drunkard. 

Micajah Moody, the major’s serving-man, had been once an 
orderly sergeant ; and, on account of a remarkable combination of 
good qualities, he had been translated, rather than promoted, from 
the regiment to his present situation. He certainly furnished an 
additional illustration of that facetious saying, that nothing was ever 
benefited by translation but a bishop. Those restrictions were not 
to be found in the major’s kitchen, which had retained Micajah 
within the bounds of decency while surrounded by his corps, who 
were entitled, of course, to the benefit of his good example. A 
very grievous amount of drunkenness, among the members of this 
particular class, is manifestly produced by the free indulgence of 
their masters ; who^ until their domestics become thoroughly con- 
firmed and utterly unprofitable sots, cannot very gracefully reprove, 
in the persons of their inferiors, those habits of intemperance, to 
which they are conscious of being sufficiently addicted themselves. 
Those free livers, as they are sometimes called, cannot be supposed 
zealous to check the habit in their dependants and retainers, at the 
very commencement ; in which very commencement, beyond all 
doubt, the danger lies, and when a few preventive suggestions 
would be likely to produce that happy result which all subsequent 
exertions may never be able to accomplish. 


fHE PROPHETS' WHERE ARE THEY? 


247 


Micajah had the highest reverence for Major Marquee. His devo- 
tion was entire and absolute. No rule of ethics was ever needed 
by this worthy servitor, whenever he could obtain, for his direction, 
the precept or example of his incomparable master. The exhibi 
tions of his exalted respect were sometimes perfectly ridiculous, 
and rather embarrassing to the major himself. A parly, chiefly 
military gentlemen, had been dining with the major, and v/ere 
engaged in comparing the professional merits of Saxe. Turenne, 
Marlborough, Wellington, Bonaparte, and other great captains. 
The restlessness of Micajah was very visible in every look and 
action. At length, he could contain himself no longer ; and, w her 
one of the party had bestowed unqualified applause upon the French 
chieftain, — “ 0, gentlemen,” cried this devoted follower, “ I wish 
you ’d a seen the major at Lundy’s Lane.” — “ Leave the room,” 
cried his master. — “Talk o’ Bonapart,” muttered Micajah, mov- 
ing towards the door. Begone, sir,” cried the major, with evi- 
dent embarrassment. The honest fellow left the room, shaking his 
head, and muttering to himself, “ If they ’d ’a been at Lundy’s 
Lane!” — 

Micajah, one instant before he beheld the major enrolling his 
name among the members of the temperance society, cared nothing 
for temperance ; and, like a Swiss soldier in foreign service, would 
as cheerfully and zealously have followed his employer, in opposi- 
tion to the cause. But he no sooner gathered the impression that 
his redoubtable master was disposed to favor these measures, than, 
without any other reflection, he readily subscribed the pledge ; and. 
as the major remarked in the conversation with his lady, was 
undoubtedly tipsy at the time. And yet here was no literal incon- 
sistency ; for Micajah ’s favorite beverage was porter or brown stout, 
he having become persuaded, some six or seven years before, when 
he lost an eye in a broil, while grievously drunk upon gin, that dis- 
tilled spirit did not suit his peculiar constitution. 

Micajah Moody fancied himself highly exalted, by having his 
name so closely associated with his master’s, and being actually a 
member of the same society. It was with an air of unusual impor- 
tance, therefore, that he entered the major’s kitchen, and took his 
position before the fire with folded arms, on the evening when he 
returned from the temperance lecture. 

Major Marquee, probably in conformity with camp habits, enter- 
tained a preference for male domestics. His family, in this depart- 
ment, consisted, beside Micajah, of a strapping black boy, to use 
the Southern appellation, though Lucifer, for such was his name, 
had weathered seventy winters, and was grayer than a badger. 


248 ' 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY) 


Lucifer, greatly to the annoyance of Mrs. Marquee performed the 
office of chambermaid ; and it was with no little difficulty, that she 
had prevailed with the major to retain old Morcas Groonter, the 
cook, who had lived many years in the family. For an omelet, 
souifie, and a ragout, Morcas was unrivalled ; and this consideration 
is supposed to have turned the balance in her favor. Lucifer was a 
runaway slave, with whose master the major had compounded. He 
was born in Congo, and might, in his prime, have been accounted 
the blackest, the woolliest, and the glossiest of his species. Mcr- 
cas Groonter was a native of Amsterdam. Such was the major’* 
establishment ; and, when Micajah entered the kitchen, these wor- 
thies were seated on each side of the expansive hearth, waiting the 
return of the household. Micajah ’s air was so unusual, and the 
pomposity of his attitude so perfectly ridiculous, that, after turning 
the whites of his eyes towards him two or three times, Lucifer gave 
way to the impulse of his feelings, and sent forth that inimitable 
Guinea snieker, wbieh has never yet been produced by the native 
inhabitants of three quarters of the globe. — “ What are you grin- 
ning for, like a Cheshire cat, hey, nigger I” cried Micajah in a pas- 
sion. — “ Ho, Mass Cajy, don be mad now,” replied the old negro ; 
“ I ony laugh cause you look so full o’ yourself ; dat all.” — “ Look 
’a here, you nigger,” cried Micajah, stamping on the hearth, “no 
more of your imp ’dence — keep your distance, sir. You’ll please 
hereafter, when you speak to me, to call me Sergeant Moody — no 
more of your Mass Cajy, or I ’ll break your black choclate-pot for 
you. — Morcas,” continued he, after a short pause, “I and the 
ma — major have joined the temperance society.” — Old Morcas 
stared in his face, and laughed outright, and Lucifer ran his fist into 
his mouth, lest he should furnish fresh occasion for enraging the 
sergeant, whose humor he well understood, and who was apt to 
be extremely savage, when under the influence of intoxicating 
liquor. — “What do you laugh at, old woman?” cried Micajah. 
“ Your mistress has signed the pledge, and I guess you ’ll have to 
sign it yourself, or quit your quarters.” — “ Mish Marquee sign de 
bledge ! vat you mean?” said old Morcas, lifting up her hands in 
astonishment ; “ vat, vill she not trink no more of dat shweot stuff 
vat she keep in te plue tronk, ey ?” — “ Pshaw, y^u old outlandish 
f>ol you !” cried the sergeant; “ the pledge has nothing to do with 
Uiat, nor wine, nor beer; but rum, and gin, and brandy.” — ‘ M:»r- 
cas Groonter won't sign de bledge den,” said the old woman “ Ise 
• trinkt de Hollands ven I vas shmall as you knee ; my mutter trinkt 
’em ; my fader trinkt ’em ; Vandergrist, de minishter, he trinkt ’em. 
Ise heerd him say if dere vas no more Hollands, den dere vud pe no 
more purgoroasters.” 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY? 


249 


While Morcas was enforcing her opinion, Micajah had betaken 
himself to the dresser, and, ha’ ing swallowed an additional potation 
of brown stout, he resumed his position before the fire. “ Well,’’ 
said he, “the major has signed the so — society, and if man, 
woman, or child dares to say agin it, I, I, I don’t care who he is, 
you see if I don’t. — I ’m for temperance ; and I’ll tell ye what, 
old woman, if you go on as you have, for a — for a long spell a 
guzzling Gineva, you ’ll be a drunkard before you die, that — that 
are 's what I prophesy.” — “ I a tronkard avoor I tie !” exclaimed 
ole Mcrcas, highly incensed at the suggestion; “la tronkaid 
avoor I tie! vy, Mike, you pe dronk dis plessit minnit your own 
sel. Vich make de piggest tronkard, a leetle oold Hollands or de 
prown shtout, ey, I vonder ! You pe foine hand to sign de bledge ! 
haw, haw !” — “ Well, hold your clack — clack, mother Groont — 
Groonter, will ye? I’m for turning in.” — The sergeant rose and 
staggered toward the door on his way to his dormitory. “ I ’ll tell 
ye what, old wo — woman,” said he, as he stood with his hand on 
the door-latch, his body swaying backward and forward while he 
spoke, “ I ’ll tell ye what, Hollands will be the death of ye : had n’t 
ye better sign the so — society, old wo — woman, hey? what d’ ye 
say to that?” — “ Ise vish de society wash ere to zee dare new 
memper — get along to ped, Mike, and shleep avay de gallon of de 
prown shtout vat you pe trink to-day.” 

It is pleasant, as Lucretius says, to get upon the very top of all 
philosophy, and look out upon the world, safe ourselves from its 
dangers and alarms. So thought Lucifer, who had sat in silence, 
grinning from ear to ear, and enjoying the strife in which he was 
not likely to be comprehended. There w’ere few things in life, 
which afforded higher satisfaction to this ancient African than the 
quarrels of Morcas and Micajah. — “ Veil, Mishy Groonter,” said 
he, as soon as the sergeant was out of hearing, “ Mass Cajy pooty 
well up tree. He all for temperance, he, he, he, he ! ony link ; and 
de major, and de ol lady, he, he! ony tink ! Mishy Groonter!” — 
“ Lush,” cried the old crone, unable to subdue her indignant feel- 
ings, “ you hear vat he zay, I pe a tronkart avoor I tie. And he 
hiinscl de tronken velp vat he pe.” — “Yes, Mishy Groonter,” 
replied Lucifer, “ I hear ’em : vat you tink ob de ol lady for tem- 
peratjce, Mishy Groonter? ey, vat you tink? he, he, he! She git 
ober de bay some lime. Two, tree, four time she send for de doc- 
tor here, de las year, notten de matter under de hebben but de good 
Btutf, Mishy Groonter. So ven ol doctor he come down, I ax vat 
de matter, and he say, O, notten, only leetle touch ob de pocalyptic 
fit — tink he call ’em so. An ven I zay, 0 how sorry I be ! and 


250 


THE PROPHETS! WHERE ARE THEY? 


look de ol doctor right in de eye, he pat his finger long side hk 
nose, and look so ridiclous, thought should die. De ol lady go de 
way oh de rest oh em, you see, Mishy Groonter ; oly you reclec, 
some day or odder, what Lusfer say.” — “ Dat shweet stuff vat 
she trink,” replied Morcas, as she raked up the fire preparatory to 
her departure for bed, “ vould make me vary tronk avocr long. I 
pe sorry de goot old laddy pe get in de pad vay.” — So saying, and 
having prepared to depart, she unlocked a cupboard, sacred tc her 
own particular use, and, taking therefrom a bottle of Geneva, she 
took her customary evening dram, leaving a few drops in the g'ass 
for Lucifer, which he swallowed with evident delight. Having 
made his arrangements for the morning, in doing which he had 
occupied some fifteen or twenty minutes after old Morcas retired, 
and cautiously reconnoitring to see if all was still, the faithful 
Lucifer drew a key from his own pocket, and, unlocking the sacred 
cupboard, helped himself to a full glass of Hollands, turning into 
the bottle an equal quantity of water in its stead ; and, having wiped 
his mouth with the back of his hand, he sat ruminating over the 
smouldering embers, and agreeably to his long-accustomed habit, 
talking to himself under the influence of his dram : — “ Pooty fair 
dat, as massa say, ven he relish de julep ; pooty fair dat, Mishy 
Groonter ; he, he, he ! Guess Mass Cajy ’bout right, Mishy 
Groonter die drunkard. Guess Mishy Groonter ’bout right too. 
Mass Cajy die same way. Don care if dey do. Den de ol major 
and de ol lady go off jest de same, likes not. Who care ! Let 
’em go. Dey don care for de ol nigger, and de ol nigger don care 
for dem. Vat ol nigger made for? I don know. Ol nigger like 
once more to see his pickaninnies on de plantation — dey big now, 
field hands, s’pose — den ol nigger like to die and go back to 
Congo, and swim in de ribber where de white thief stole de ol 
nigger ven he little pickaninny hisself. — Veil, Lushfer, go to bed, 
and forget all ’bout it and having finished his soliloquy, he obeyed 
the commands which he thus laid upon himself. 

It is about twelve years since the occurrences, which have been 
thus succinctly described are supposed to have taken place. They 
came to our knowledge about four years ago, and were substantially 
related by a clergyman, who was a zealous supporter of the tem- 
p<;rance cause. “ How exceedingly inconsistent, how perfectly 
absurd,” said he, “ are the views of some persons upon this inter- 
esting subject! It can be of little importance, by what means 
Qrunkenness is produced. The divine command to abstain from 
drunkenness is equally violated by him, who commits the offence, 
whether he employs one agent or another, for the production of 


THE PROPHETS! WtlERE ARE THEY? 


25 - 


tjiis disgusting result.” He then proceeded to relate the preceding 
narrative, by way of illustration. “ All these personages,” con- 
tinued he, “ were either parishioners of mine, or within the sphere 
of my observation ; and their predictions and prophecies, in regard 
to one another, were occasionally made in my hearing. Farmer 
Bockum was a veritable prophet. The major squandered his wife’s 
property, became exceedingly intemperate, so much so that his 
name was stricken off by the society, within three months after he 
signed the pledge. He died of apoplexy. Lucifer was not the 
only one, who presumed to foretell a similar fate in relation to his 
mistress. She is still living, decidedly intemperate, and supported 
by an old family connection. When their property was gone, she 
reconciled herself to the most humble substitutes for noyeau and 
anisette. The old lady’s prediction was not less correct in regard 
to Micajah, than was his in relation to old Morcas Groonter. Both 
are in their graves, and both died drunkards. Poor Farmer Bockum 
is also dead, and he died in the most perfect fulfilment of the major’s 
prophecy. The farmer’s widow still lives, though in a very bad 
way. She is not commonly suspected of intemperance, since she 
ordinarily drinks nothing but metheglin, and her secret of enforcing 
it was one that she probably considered too important to be commu- 
nicated. Old Lucifer also is no more. He died a sot, and I have 
frequently warned him of the consequences of his evil habit. You 

see, my dear sir,” continued the Rev. Mr. , “ you see the 

verifications of all these prophecies. Well may we exclaim. The 
prophets ! where are theyl ” 

I was much amused and instructed by these remarks of my rever- 
end friend ; and, believing they might be profitably moulded into the 
form of a temperance tale, I called on the narrator, about a month 
after the first recital, to ascertain if he had any objection. It was 
nearly four years ago. I found him just taking his seat at the din- 
ner-table, and, upon his pressing invitation, I took mine by his side, 
tie agreed with me entirely, and gave his ready consent to the pub- 
'ication. I perceived a decanter of colored liquor upon the table, 
and supposing it to be currant water, or some simple beverage, I 
inquired with a smile, if it were some of Mrs. Bockum’s methegliii. 
My friend replied, and, as I fancied At the moment, with a little 
formality, that it was not. Presently he poured out a glass for 
himself, and asked me if I would take a glass of wine. — “ Wine !” 
said I, with an involuntary expression of surprise. “ Yes,” he 
replied ; “ this is some excellent sherry, sent me as a present by 
a parishioner of mine.” — “ I was not aware,” said I, “ that you 
drank wine.” — “Yes, sir,” said he, with increasing fonnahty, 


252 


THE PROPHETS ! WHERE ARE THEY } 


“ our Saviour drank wine, and his example may be followed, I sup 
pose.” — The wife and children of the reverend gentleman were 
present, and I p-srceived, that any attempt to argue upon this inter- 
esting matter would have been ungraciously received. I therefore 
shortly after took my leave. 

This good man is now gathered to his fathers. When the tem- 
perance society in his village, of which he had been president for 
several years, decided to adopt the comprehensive pledge, he 
resigned his office, and not only ceased to cooperate with his old 
friends, but became positively hostile to the progress of the temper- 
ance cause. I am told that his habit of drinking wine grew visibly 
stronger from month to month, and not only utterly annihilated his 
influence as a friend of temperance, but essentially diminished his 
usefulness as a minister of the gospel of Christ. 

Verily, thought I, a* I por le.ed these things, — the vrofheie* 
U'here are theyt 



MARGARET’S BRIDAL 


^To the Key- JOHN MARSH, Corresponding Secretary of the American Temperance (Jnion. My 
Otar Sir: I ae bagatelle, which I present you, upon the following pages, with a formal dedictbc* 
to lh« Corresponding Secretary of the American Tempeiince Union, reminds me of some little urclin, 
who. in a sportive moment, has overwhelmed his brows with his granilfather’s lull-bottom uig. 
Nevertheless, as I am indebted to you for the fact, upon which I have constructed the story cf 
MoTgaret's Bridal, \ \ia.ns taken the liberty to inscribe it with your name. In tnith, this liitle 
narrative was written at your particular suggestion ; and I can never regret it, since it has atir.rdsj 
me legitimate occasion for associating with my humble labors the name of one, whom I cordiaJly 
respect and esteem. 

And now, iny dear sir, that I have virtually made you, nolens volens, the sponsor for my bantling, 
I intend to be quite as reasonable in my demands, as most fond parents are upon the god-fathers of 
the-r oflspring. In a word, if you will vouchsafe to this new-comer a very small share of that affec- 
tionate interest, which you have so kindly bestowed upon every other member of this numerou* 
ferady, it will be favored beyond its deserts, and I shall not complain of the operation of that ancient 
tts ute, which gave the first born a double portion. 

In this holy enterprise, in which we have been fellow-laborers, for many years, no human enjoy- 
V* nl can he more pure than the gratification resulting from success. Upon this consecrated arena 
-sither riches nor honors are to be gathered, of this present world. We are permitted to behold the 

ig lost child, dead — ay, buried In his trespasses and sins — bursting the bandages of a moral 
«ath — returning to the trembling arms of an aged parent — wives regaining their husbands—- 
rphans finding their fathers — the miserable drunkard resuming the implements of honest industry, 
<atl'ering up his fallen respectability, and, after years of slothful neglect, returning to bis little 
jnes at last with bread, that they may eat and live — the den of sin ana misery becoming once more 
the peaceful cottage — the mutual confidence of its inmates completely re established — the rum-jug 
removed forever from its accustomed place upon their humble board, and in its stead the expanded 
vclsr/ie of eternal truth ! Is there not enough of reward for all our toil in the delightful conscious- 
ness, that, under God, we have had any agency, however subordinate, in the production of such 
results as these? 1 fervently ask of Heaven the same blessing upon this present effort, which has 
been vouchsafed upon its predecessors. May God speed this little messenger upon its errand of 
mercy to the castles of the rich, and the cottages of the poor — to the log-houses of the far west, and 
to foreign climes. 

Adieu, iny dear sir. May we be permitted to labor together in this cause of God and of humanity, 
for many years ; and may we say of it, with our latest breath, in the language of the departirg 
natriot to his native land — Esto perpetual 


“ Galliopolis !” — “Yes, sir,” replied the captain of the gay 
little steamer, in which we were gliding rapidly downward upon the 
glassy waters of the Ohio ; “ Galliopolis is the name of that settle- 
ment, and the river, whose mouth you see opposite, on the Virginia 
shore, is the Great Kenhaway. Colonel Byerly,” continued he, 
turning to a good-looking, gray-headed, gentlemanly man, who was 
sitting near us upon the upper deck, — “ Colonel Byerly is an old 
Buckeye, and can give you all the information you can possibly 
desire, in relation to these matters. Give me leave. Colonel Byerly', 
to make you acquainted with Mr. Merlin, of Massachusetts. He is 
a stranger in this region, and as you are both temperance men, you 
will not be at a loss for a topic of conversation.” — The colonel rose 
with an air of politeness and cordiality, which, T seriously fear, was 
more common, half a century ago, than it is at the present day ; 
and, with something of the formality of military manners, introduced 
▼OL. II. 22 


254 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


me to a gentleman who was conversing with him, a short time 
before, as the Rev. Mr. M'Ninny, of North Carolina. “ We are 
all temperance men, I believe,” said Colonel Byerly. — “ 1 trust it 
is so,” said the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny ; “ I know of no common ground, 
upon which entire strangers may so easily become friends, as upon 
the temperance ground.” — “ How wonderfully,” said the colouel, 
‘ are the very extremities of the earth brought closely together, by 
this power of steam ! You see yonder, near the after part of the 
boat, a young couple, who are returning to Illinois. That young 
'jT'an has taken a wife from the shores of the Kennebec ; and, if he 
sets any value upon his ears, he will never open his mouth, in her 
hearing, about wooden nutmegs or Yankee notions. Here, owing 
to this amazing facility of locomotion, here are we three, from dis- 
tant corners of the union, brought together in front of Galliopolis.” 

— “ Pray, sir,” said the clergyman, “ does it take its name from Gal- 
liopoli, at the mouth of the Sea of Marmora, or from Galliopoli in the 
kingdom of Naples!” — “ From neither,” replied the colonel, “ but 
from the fact, that, many years since, about the year 1791, if I 
rightly recollect, there came hither a company of French adventur- 
ers, and settled upon this tract of land. Some time after, a defect 
was discovered in their title, and they were accordingly ejected. It 
was their intention to have cultivated the vine, upon an extensive 
scale ; and, for some particular species, it was thought the climate 
and soil would have been very well adapted. It was their intention 
to establish the manufacture of wine ; and they were very sanguine 
in relation to the success of their enterprise, until they were driven 
from their Eden in the wilderness, by the power of the law.” — 
“ What a pity,” exclaimed our reverend friend, — “ what a pity, 
that they should have been interrupted in such a career of active 
benevolence!” — Fora moment, I supposed this remark to have 
been uttered in the spirit of irony. A single glance convinced me 
of my error; and, at that instant, I recollected, that, in the earlier 

'Stages of the temperance reform, and while its fundamental princi- 
ples were as yet imperfectly considered, a benevolent physician, in 
the metropolis of New England, established an extensive brewery, 
in aid of the temfcrance cause. “ Do you think, sir,” said I, address- 
ing myself respectfully to the clergyman, — “ do you think, sir, that 
the introduction of the vine into our country, with a view to the 
manufacture of wine upon an extensive scale, would be a blessing!” 

— “ Can there be a doubt of it!” he replied. — “I should think 
there might be,” said a pale young man, in rusty black, who had 
joined our littlfe circle, and whom I conjectured, correctly, as I after- 
ward# ascertained, to be himself a clergyman. The Rev. Mr. 


MARGARET'S BRIDAL. 


255 


M’Ninny gazed upon this young man, who had presumed to doubt 
the correctness of his opinions, with an expression, which did not 
strike me as altogether evangelical. “I am an ardent friend of 
temperance,” said he, “ but I am not an ultraist. There is a great 
amount of ultraism at the present day, and this excellent cause of 
temperance has come in for a bountiful share of it.” — “ Pray, sir,” 
said the young man, with a manner altogether unexceptionable, 

will you give me a definition of ultraism?” — “ Give you a defini- 
tion of ultraism? Yes, sir, I will,” replied the other; “ ultraism, 
sir, is — is — that is to say, ultraism in temperance is a sort of — a 
species of intemperance itself, sir. It is going beyond reasonable 
bounds.” — “Well, sir,” said the young man, “on the whole, I 
think your definition of ultraism a good one ; and now the question 
returns in this form — what are reasonable bounds?” — “Reason- 
able bounds,” replied Mr. McNinny, “ are the old bounds, to be 
sure. While the friends of temperance confined their operations to 
the suppression of the use of ardent spirit, their labors were attended 
with success. But now the ultraists are bringing ruin on the best 
of causes. Wine is a blessing, and so are all fermented liquors. 
Fermentation is God’s work; distillation is man’s work.” — 
“ Stranger,” said a raw-boned Kentuckian, who had listened in 
silence for some time, “both on ’em’s the devil’s work, I tell ye. 
I ’ve tried ’em all, and been jest as crazy as a ’coon with a slug in 
his ear, ’pon every one on ’em, from streaked ale up e’enamost t’ 
akyfortus.” 

“ Sir,” said the young man, after the Kentuckian’s unexpected 
sortie had produced its effect, and the laughter, which it had occa- 
sioned, had subsided, “ it seems to me there is but one simple ques- 
tion to be settled, and that is a question of fact — are fermented 
liquors^or, rather, is any one fermented liquor sufficient now, as it 
was of olu, for the production of personal, domestic, and national 
irunkenness f We have the clearest evidence, that the greater part 
■)f the drunkenness of Great Britain, at the present day, is produced 
Dy the use of fermented liquor, especially of beer. The popular 
delusion, respecting the temperance of France and other wine-pro- 
ducing countiiei, is at an end. This error has arisen from a long- 
continued supposition that the effects of drunkenness were similar, 
however produced. The wretch, stupefied and prostrate in the 
gutter, under the influence of ardent spirit or strong beer — the 
assassin, whose eyes are open, whose muscular power is absolutely 
increased, but whose reason is utterly dethroned, under the stimulus 
of light wines — these are both equally drunk. If the evils of 
druni^imess are to be entailed upon us, as a nation, and we may be 


256 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


permitted to choose for ourselves the means of intoxication, we shah 
avoid incalculable evils, by selecting ardent spirits instead of fer- 
mented liquors. We shall thereby greatly diminish the amount of 
domestic misery. In either case the drunkard will be a drunkard 
still ; and it will be of little consequence, in regard to himself, 
whether the hand of death do its work earlier or later, by the brief 
space of a few days, or weeks, or months. In relation to his mis- 
erable household and to all around him, it is far otherwise.” — 
“Jest so,” cried the Kentuckian, “jest so my wife used to say; 
said she, ‘ Eleezur, if you will git drunk,’ said she, ‘ for Heaven’s 
sake git drunk right off on whiskey ; then you ’ll tumble into the 
house head foremost, and the boys and I ’ll be able to git ye to bed, 
and ye ’ll sleep it off, and there ’s an eend on ’t for that bout. But 
for massy’s sake don’t git drunk on cider, ye’re so long a gittin 
drunk, and so cross and rampaugy the hull time, kickin the children 
about, and gittin so crazy that ye don’t know frind from foe ; git 
drunk on whiskey, Eleezur, do now, there’s a nice man, but don’t 
git drunk on cider.’ ” 

These shots from the Kentuckian’s rifle were exceedingly annoy- 
ing to the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny, who thought proper to neutralize the 
power of this irregular opponent, by a perplexing interrogatory. — 
“ My friend,” said he, “ you appear to be a very zealous advocate 
for temperance : are you a member of the society 1” — “ I be, stran- 
ger,” he replied ; “I joined it about a year ago ; and my wife says 
she ’s got sothin to live for now, and afore she wished herself dead ; 
that’s the differ; and the children aren’t afear'd o’ me now no 
time o’ day, nor night neither. I don’t s’pose you ’d approve o’ our 
society, accordin to your talk, for we go the hull figur. Our doc- 
tor ’s joined it, but we can’t get Parson Roundy nor Lawyer Flayer 
to come in no how. The squire doubts whether it ’s constitutional ; 
and Parson Roundy says it ’s agin Scriptur. Kentuck ’s a doin 
better for temperance than you think for, stranger, I tell ye.” 

The occasional laughter, which had been elicited by the quaint 
remarks of this honest backwoodsman, had made our circle an object 
of no small attraction ; and some thirty or forty passengers had 
already gathered to the spot. 

“ The wine of old,” continued the young clergymen, “ contained 
no other alcohol than such as resulted from its own fermentation. 
Distillati »n was unknown. Of course, no distilled spirit was added. 
The ver} reverse of this is true of the modern wine of commerce. 
It is highly enforced with distilled alcohol. The wine of old was 
strong enough, comparatively weak and innocent as it was, to intox- 
icate Noah, and Lot, and Belshazzar, and even the primitive Gorin 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


257 


thian disciples, around the table of their Lord. It was strong 
enough to bring down that curse of drunkenness upon all Jerusa- 
lem, which God Almighty denounced by the lips of Jeremiah. 
Now, as man is precisely the thing he then was, so far as respects 
his liability to be made drunk, by such means of drunkenness as 
were then employed, upon what ground can we anticipate for our- 
selves a different result from the operation of causes precisely simi- 
lar? If distilled spirit were forever and entirely abolished from the 
earth, yet if wine, the pure, unenforced wine of old remaim-c. 
drunkenness, as of old, would remain, the very same personal, 
domestic, and national curse. How much more probable would bo 
this result from the employment of the modern wine of commerce!” 

— “I reckon you’d better come down, stranger,” said the Ken- 
tuckian, addressing himself to the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny. — “Come 
down !” replied he, “ I know not what you mean by coming down.” 

— “ Well, then,” said the Kentuckian, “ I ’ll jest tell ye. Ye see 
there was a feller was a tellin how many ’coons he ’d killed in a 
day. He made a dreadful swagger on it; I b’lieve my soul he said 
he ’d killed a hundred afore dinner. There was another feller, a 
neighbor o’ mine, lives a purty considerable piece above my log on 
Boon’s Lick. He didn't believe the tother, ye see ; so he ups to 
him arter this fashin ; says he, ‘ You killed a hundred afore dinner, 
did ye V ‘ Yes, I did,’ said the tother; ‘bagged jest ninety-seven ; 
three fell in the gullies, and I couldn’t git ’em.’ — ‘That are’s 
nothin,’ said he ; ‘ why, there’s Ginral Sweeny up our Lick, he ’s 
fetched down a hundred and forty afore breakfast. The ’coons 
knew he never missed, and they got out of his way as soon as ever 
they see him. There was one confounded sly old ’coon ; he ’d lost 
his tail and one paw ; nobody could touch him over ; but one day 
the ginral was out, and he got a fair sight o’ this old ’coon, clean up 
in the tip top of a black walnut. Up went the rifle, and the ginral 
cries out, ‘Ha, Jocco, I’ve got ye at last.’ Jocco looked down, 
and he no sooner see who ’twas, than he cried out, ‘Don’t fire, 
ginral ; if it ’s you I ’ll come down !’ ’T was that I was a thinkin 
on, when I told ye, stranger, that ye ’d better come down.” — The 
shout of laughter, which followed this last speech of the Kentuck- 
ian, literally shook the timbers of our little steamer, and gathered 
almost the whole company around us. 

“ Well,” said Colonel Byerly, “ I am not a member of the Tem- 
perance Society, but I believe it to be entitled to the respect of every 
reflecting man, and of every patriot. If I were asked the qu(3Stion, 
why I im not a member of the society, it would probably take me 
•ome time to furnish a reason, which would satisfy myself or any- 
22 * 


VOL. II. 


258 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


bod / else.” — “ I reckon the folks are more than half right, colonel,” 
said the Kentuckian. — “ Half right,” said the colonel with a smile, 
“in what respect?” — “Why, they all say,” replied the back- 
WDi^^dsman, “ that you ’re an honest man.” — “ Be that as it may,” 
continued Colonel Byerly, “ whenever I conclude to join a temper- 
ance society, it must be one, whose principles of action are consis- 
tent and perfectly intelligible. If the object of the society be the 
prevention of intoxication, a pledge of abstinence should run, it 
seems to me, against all intoxicating drinks ; and, strictly speaking, 
against all intoxicating substances. A pledge of abstinence from 
ardent spirits is an imperfect thing ; for the party may be as drunk 
as he pleases upon cider, wine, or beer. If we were surrounded by 
our enemies, it would be accounted miserable generalship to concen- 
trate all our forces in front, leaving our flanks and rear without any 
protection. It is perfectly absurd to speak of wine as a harmless 
beverage. During the old war, the war of the revolution, the offi- 
cers of the regiment, to which I was attached, became fully per- 
suaded, that brandy was a mischievous beverage. Its evil effects 
had become too apparent. Some of our number were evidently 
getting into a very bad way. The idea of a temperance society, 
extending its influence over the whole civilized earth, was no more 
in our thoughts, at that time, than the idea of a steamboat or a 
locomotive engine upon a railway. Nevertheless it appeared abso- 
lutely necessary to the most reflecting of our corps, that some plan 
should be devised, for the prevention of that intemperance, which 
was becoming rather too characteristic among the gentlemen of the 
army. We therefore resolved to make no use of brandy for one 
year. A few of us set the example, and subscribed an agreement 
to that effect, which in less than a fortnight was signed by every 
officer in the regiment. It was proposed to include rum, and offer 
the paper to the whole regiment, rank and file. To this there were 
serious objections. We, at that time, never imagined such a thing 
as total abstinence. We no more thought of cold water for drink, 
than of raw pork for diet. Indeed we had already clubbed our 
purses for the purchase of a suitable quantity of wine. It seemed 
hardly fair, therefore, as the common soldiers could not afford the 
purchase of wine, to call on them for a resignation of their grog, 
offering no other substitute than cold water. We therefore 
limited our project to the officers of the regiment. The experi- 
ment went into immediate operation. We tried it about three 
months, and abandoned it in utter despair. The vice oecame more 
social ; we tarried longer over the bottle ; we became more talka- 
tive, disputatious, and even quarrelsome ; and I well remember that 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL 


2 ^ 


one prominent s ibject-matter of altercation was the unaccountable 
facility, with which our whole stock of wine was drunk out. We 
gave it up, and went back to brandy.” — “The greatest blessing 
may be abused, colonel,” said the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny : “ we have 
the highest authority for the use of wine. Paul rec(immended it to 
Timothy.” — “ He did,” said the young clergyman, “ for his infirm- 
ities ; let wine then be kept for the sick, if it be thought neces- 
sary by the faculty ; and, since we cannot have an inspired apostle 
at our elbows to prescribe it, let us abstain from its employment, 
until we have at least the prescription of a conscientious temperance 
physician.” — “We have a higher authority than Paul, that of 
Christ himself,” said the other. — “ Sir,” said the young man, with 
great solemnity of manner, “ I am always shocked when mere men 
of the world defend their habit of drinking wine, by the example of 
our blessed Redeemer. I cannot describe my feelings, when the 
practice of wine-drinking is defended upon the strength of this holy 
example, by a minister of the gospel. It is not possible for him to 
set up his authority for himself, and not for the world ; for the most 
temperate, and not for the most intemperate of mankind. He may 
draw nice distinctions ; others Vv^ill not. The authority, if applied at 
all, is applied universally; and its advantages are claimed by all, if 
allowed to any. Intemperance is a gradual affair, from the first 
trifling excess to the grossest debauchery. The transitions are 
often imperceptible, by him, who makes them. From first to last, 
his moral vision becoming the more depraved, the further he ad- 
vances, the intemperate man is incapable of perceiving any differ- 
ence between himself and his more temperate, wine-drinking neigh- 
bor. It is enough, they both drink wine ; and each justifies his 
conduct, by the example of the Redeemer. Can anything be con- 
ceived more awfully revolting than this?” — “ You are very fluent, 
sir, for so young a man,” said the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny, evidently 
nettled by the remarks of his younger brother ; “ it is my deliberate 
opinion, that he, w^ho holds there is any impropriety in drinking 
wine, insults the memory of his Redeemer.” — “ I regret my youth, 
sir,” the young clergyman replied, “if it be any obstacle, in your 
estimation, to the progress of sound doctrine. We are taught, 
however, to let no man despise it, while we are struggling against 
any opinion, which we conscientiously believe to be heretical. Ii 
seems to me that there are so many ways, in which a sincere dis- 
ciple may testify his love and reverence for his Lord and Master, 
that it is scarcely necessary to resort to the expedient of drinking 
wine. We may preach his gospel to all nations. We may select 
some barren spot, and toil over the moral wilderness, till it blossom 


260 


MAEGARET’S BRIDAL. 


like the rase. We may take upon our shoulders the smallest frag- 
ment of the cross ; and I ask you, i-everend sir, if you do not in 
your heart believe, that such service will be more acceptable to our 
blessed Master, than drinking wine to his honor and glory?” — • 
“ Young man !” exclaimed the Rev. Mr. M’ Ninny, with an uplifted 
finger, “ yon forget yourself ; your language is absolutely irrev- 
erent and impious.” — “God forbid,” said the young clergyman, 
with an expression of sincere devotion upon his features, which 
impressed me and all around him, I believe, with a feeling of 
respect and confidence; “God forbid, sir,” said he, “that I 
should suffer anything irreverent or impious to pass these lip*, 
which have been consecrated to the service of Heaven. If there be 
aught in my remark, which savors of irreverence or impiety, it 
springs not from me or my language, but arises from the faithful 
exhibition of the idea — the idea of manifesting one’s love and rev- 
erence for the Saviour of mankind, by drinking wine ! If this be 
one of the tasks, imposed upon his followers, verily the burden is 
light.” — “Pray, sir,” said the Rev. Mr. McNinny, in a tone some- 
what-subdued, for he already began to perceive that his antag- 
onist was not to be despised ; “ pray, sir,” said he, “ did not Christ 
convert water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana of Galilee ? 
Was he not himself a guest, and was not the wine, which he made., 
furnished in abundance at that festival, and with his entire appro- 
bation?” — All eyes were turned upon the young clergyman, in 
expectation of his reply. He seemed overwhelmed with this unex- 
pected interrogatory ; and, for some time, continued to bow down 
his head, literally, like a bulrush. The Rev. Mr. M ’Ninny had 
already gathered courage from the apparent confusion of his antago- 
nist, and, being disposed to make the most of his victory, exclaimed, 
“ Well, sir, you find yourself perplexed for an answer, I see, and I 
io not wonder at your confusion, young man.” — “I am not per 
plexed for an answer,” said the young clergyman, in a melancholy 
tone of voice, at the same time raising his eyes upon his adversary. 
We were all greatly surprised to perceive that they w'ere filled with 
tears, and a feverish glow had suddenly spread itself over his pale 
features. — “ I am in no confusion, reverend sir,” continued he ; 
“ but you have approached a subject of oeeper and more painful 
interest to me than you can possibly imagine.” — At this moment 
the bell announced that dinner was upon the table. “ If you con- 
ceive it to be worth your trouble, sir,” continued the young clergy 
man, “to give any further attention to my remarks, and will meet 
me here after our repast, I foresee, at this momeni, no insurmount- 
able difficulty in the way of furnishing a satisfactory reply to your 
interrogatories.” — “ Very well, sir,” said the other. 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


261 


Tho g^-oup instantly dispersed ; and, whatever migl t have been 
the diversity of opinion, respecting the subject under discussion, the 
me St perfect unanimity appeared now to prevail. All, with one 
consent, rushed down the companion-way into the cabin, and w'e 
F»oon found our places, round the well-furnished table of the steamer. 
I had Colonel Byerly, on my right hand, and our honest friend from 
Boon's Lick had taken his place, upon my left. “ Colonel Byerly,” 
said I, “ do you know the name of this young man?” — “ No, sir,” 
ne replied, “ but our friend, M’Ninny, had better not have meddled 
with him; he has gotten his hands full, if I am not greatly mis- 
taken.” — “ Colonel,” said the Kentuckian, “ an’t he a smart un? 
don’t he hold on jest like a bear-trap, don’t he, colonel ?” — “ He is 
«n intelligent young man, friend Kennedy,” replied the colonel ; 

I never saw him before.” — “He seemed to hang fire a leetle 
nite,” said the Kentuckian, “tow’rds the last on ’t, but my old 
kifle will do jest so, now and then, and there’s no better in old 
Kentuck.” — “No, no, Kennedy,” said Colonel Byerly, “he 
didn’t hang fire, as you call it, but he reserved his fire, as we 
military folks phrase it. M’Ninny was mistaken in the supposition, 
which he evidently indulged, that his opponent was perplexed by 
hio questions. Something, I know not what, affected the young 
man’s feelings in a very sudden and extraordinary manner. I know 
not who he is. He may be the worse clothed and fed of the two ; 
but if our friend M’Ninny will only stand fire this afternoon, he ’ll 
got grape and canister to his heart’s content, or I have mistaken my 
•nan entirely.” — “I’m afeard, colonel,” said the Kentuckian, 
“ that tother bird ’ll show the white feather, may be won’t come up 
<0 the scratch at all, ey, colonel?” — “Never fear him for that, 
Kennedy,” replied Colonel Byerly. “ True courage clearly fore- 
.iees and deliberately weighs the peril it encounters ; rashness rushes 
to the onset without care or calculation. I know the character of 
.jur reveiend fiiend right well : he will not shun the contest, depend 
upon it.” — “Well, colonel, like as not you’re right,” said the 
Kentuckian ; “ there ’s my old sorrel ; he ’s blind as a beetle, 
stubborn as a mule, stupid as an ass, and bold as a lion. Off he 
goes, slap dash, and fetches up in a ditch, nine times out o’ ten.” 
— “The reverend gentleman,” said I, “appears to be fortifying 
for the occasion.” — “ Fags, stranger,” said the Kentuckian, “ and 
so he is ; he ’s a drinkin wine or sothen, accordin to Scriptur.” — 
We glanced our eyes along the table, at which some sixty passen- 
gers were seated ; only one of the whole company had ca .led for 
iny intoxicating beverage ; the only decanter upon the board was 
before the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny. Shortly after, it was brought round 


262 


MARGARET’S ERmAL. 


by the waiter, with the reverend gentleman’s compliments to 
Colonel Byerly, and a request to take wine with him, “ Return u 
to the gentleman with my respects,” said Colonel Byerly, “ and 
say, that, with his permission, I will pledge him in a glass of 
water,” — “Well done, colonel!” cried the Kentuckian, “ if I 
don’t tell our folks o’ that ! How my old Jarman neighbor, Snoo- 
der, who ’s all for temp’rance, will shout, when he hears that an 
old revolutioner wouldn’t drink wine with a minister o’ the gospel, 
accordin to Scriptur! ha, ha, ha!” — “Such incidents as these,” 
said I, “ have an injurious influence upon the clerical character, 
and, with the undiscriminating mass, upon the cause of religion 
itself,” — “No doubt of it,” replied Colonel Byerly ; “ you see how 
it is ; having taken the prominent position, which he has assumed, 
during the morning, all eyes are, at this moment, directed towards 
him and his decanter. In the present condition of public sentiment, 
such conduct appears to me exceedingly unfortunate in a minister 
of the gospel. If it appears so to me, who am not a member of the 
Temperance Society, how must it appear to those who are — a 
clergyman, himself a member of the society, drinking his wine, in 
one of our great, locomotive taverns — at the public table of a 
steamboat ! This is something worse than a mere work of super- 
erogation,” — “Well, colonel, I don't know what sort of a work 
’tis,” said the Kentuckian, “ but I do know this gentleman and our 
Parson Roundy would go together in double harness, as kind as 
any two old stagers that ever you see. You heer’d what he said 
about wine at the wedding. Well, there was a wedding at Parson 
Roundy’s house, about five months ago ; ’t was jest arter our Total 
Abstinence Society had got under way, and was purty pop’lar 
among our folks. About twenty o’ their frinds got together, with 
the bride and bridegroom ; they was all youngish people. So when 
Parson Roundy had married ’em, he goes into his closet, and out 
he comes with his face as round and shiny, as the lid of a bran new 
warming-pan, holdin in his hand a sarver with glasses and a decanter 
o’ wine. So, ye see, he pours out a couple o’ glasses, and hands 
one on ’em to the bride, and t’ other to the bridegroom. ‘ I ’m not 
peticlar about takin any,’ said the bride. ‘ No occasion for any, 
thankee, sir,’ said the bridegroom. Parson Roundy hemm’d as 
rough as a saw-mill ; he always does when he ’s put out ; so on he 
went, handin the liquor to one arter another, till he ’d got through 
the hull boodle on ’em ; and not a mother’s son nor darter would 
touch the valley of a spunful. ‘Well,’ said he, as gruffly as a 
bull-frog with the throat distemper, ‘ I should suppose you were all 
of ye membe's of tie cold-water society.’ — ‘I b’lieve we he, sir,’ 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


263 


said one on ’em, with a giggle, as she looked round upon the rest 
‘ Yes, Parson Roundy,’ said the bridegroom, ‘ we thought as how 
we should be as well off not to meddle with edge tools ; so Jerusha 
and I signed the pledge afore we got married ! ’ — Parson Roundj 
did n’t like it ; he looked like a red pepper. So what d’ ye think he 
does ; he call'd in his two young children, and he told each on ’em 
to drink the health o’ the bride and bridegroom. There, colonel, 
what d’ ye think o’ that?” — “ Why, I think,” replied the colonel, 
“ that your Parson Roundy must be a terrible blockhead.” 

“ I believe, sir,” said a gentleman, who sat directly opposite to us 
at the table, addressing Colonel Byerly, “ I believe you were 
desirous of knowing the name of the young clergyman, who w’as 
engaged this morning in the discussion with the Rev. Mr. IVP Ninny.” 

— “ Can you inform usl” inquired the colonel. “ His name, sir,” 

replied the other, “ is Egerton. He was settled, about three years 
ago, over a small parish in the village of . He is an excel- 

lent young man. You remarked, sir, that he might not be so well 
clothed or fed as his antagonist. He is poor, yet making many rich. 
His ministry has been followed by God’s blessing in a remarkable 
manner. His humble flock are very strongly attached to him. 
They have clubbed their little offerings together, and thereby sup- 
plied the means of travelling, and they have compelled him to take 
a respite from his labors. With his salary, — and it is very small, 

— he maintains a mother and sister, both in infirm health. His 
sister has labored, for some years, under a distressing melancholy, 
and has appeared, at times, to have lost her reason entirely. You 
may see them now sitting together at the upper end of the table.” 

We turned our eyes upon the group ; and readily recognized Mr. 
Egerton, whom we had not noticed before, since we took our seats 
at the table. He was placed between an elderly lady, some five- 
and-sixty years of age, who appeared quite infirm, and one about 
twenty-eight or thirty, whose whole appearance attracted our partic- 
ular attention. 1 thought I had never seen the marks and numbers 
of settled melancholy, more firmly riveted upon the human coun- 
tenance. “ She has been very beautiful,” said Colonel Byerly. — 
“ She retains something of her former appearance,” said our in 
formant. “ I remember the time, when Margaret Egerton wai 
decidedly the most lovely creature I ever beheld, and that was not 
many years ago. She had a fine color then, but she is now, as yoB 
see, exceedingly pale ; her features have become sharpened, and hei 
eyes, which were uncommonly fine, are now seldom turned upon 
those' <rf any other.” — We looked upon this young woman with 
increasing interest. The arrangement of her dress and hair wort 


264 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


certain slight indications of negligence, which, while they offended 
not at all against the laws oi propriety, seemed silently to say 
“ Pride is not, and hope has gone.” Her eyes seemed fixed on 
vacancy, while with her finger she appeared to be tracing unmean- 
ing characters upon the table before her. “ Can any cause be 
assigned,” said I, addressing our informant, “ for this young lady s 
melancholy P’ — “ Yes, sir,” he replied. “ Her story is a sad one. 
and the circumstances are well known to me ; but it would be im- 
possible to give you any satisfactory account of it, situated as we 
are, at this moment.” — “Colonel Byerly,” said the Kentuckian, 
“ I ’m a thinkin it ’ll be hardly a fair scratch to pit them two agin 
each other. That young man looks jest as white as a sheet, and as 
streaked as a 'possum that ’s been kept on short allowance all win- 
ter ; and the t’ other — there, only see, he ’s takin another glass' — 
I 've seen him take three — I wonder where he finds Scriptur for all 
that — only look at him ; he ’s a gettin the steam up purty consid- 
erable, I tell ye — how faarce he looks ! — I would n’t like to be one 
o’ five alligators to match him, no time o’ day. Don’t ye think, 
colonel, when they both go up and git at it, if the old un ’s gittin 
the young un on the hip, or the like o’ that, ’t would be a kind o’ 
charitable for me to let off a leetle, and kittle the old feller a mite, 
’twixt the joints o’ the harness, ey, colonel?” — “ Let them have 
a fair field, friend Kennedy,” replied Colonel Byerly. “ Neither 
make nor meddle. I have seen pale faces, in my time, in the thick- 
est of the fight. You can no more judge of a man’s courage by 
his complexion than of a horse’s wind and bottom by the length of 
his tail.” — “Haw, haw, haw, now, colonel,” cried the Kentuck- 
ian, “ you ’d eenamost set a skillinton a larfin.” — “ You remember 
Pincher, the little drummer, don’t you?” said Colonel Byerly, — 
“ Remember him !” said Kennedy ; “ why, I seed him last week ; 
he ’s one o’ my next neighbors, only four-and-twenty miles above. 
He always speaks o’ you with great respect, colonel. He ’s in the 
drovin line now ; he told me, t’ other day, when I met him, nigh 
Little Hockin, where he was arter critturs, that he ’d give a prime 
beef if he could only git a grip o’ Colonel Byerly’s hand once more 
afore he died.” — “ Did he really?” said the colonel, with an ex- 
pression of grateful emotion. “ That was more than I expected of 
Pincher. I ’ve ordered him a dozen, more than once, well laid on, 
for robbing a hen-roost. He was the biggest thief in the army. 1 
suppose the poor fellow has not forgotten the good turn I did him 
on one occasion. I know not how much he has altered in his appear- 
wice since then.” — “ He ’s older, o’ course,” said the Kentuckian, 
gray as a badger, thin as a raal weasel, and jest as pale as a 


MARGARETS BRIDAL. 


265 

white fish. I don’t reckon he ’s altered a mite these twenty years. 
He ’s got the very drum he beat in the old war. Somebody stole 
one o’ the sticks, and you never see sich a loose as he made about 
it. The old man gets his drum out the fourth o’ July, afore light, 
and drums all round town, like all possessed, followed by every boy 
and dog in the village.” — “ Well,” said Colonel Byerly, “ he was 
she most contemptible piece of humanity, to look upon, the meanest 
and the most forlorn, that we had in our regiment ; pale, diminu- 
tive, downcast in the extreme. He beat an excellent drum, and 
this seemed to be the best of him. Notwithstanding all this, he had 
the courage of a real dragon. He had a great friendship for Tim 
Hendricks, a fifer in the same company. At the horrible affair of 
the Miami villages, where St. Clair was routed, poor Hendricks 
was shot dead by an Indian, who sprang forward to take his scalp, 
Fincher flew at him, and I saw him, with my own eyes, run the 
Indian through with the sword in his right hand, while he still kept 
up rattling a charge on his drum with the other. But the tables 
were about being turned upon poor Fincher. Three or four of the 
Sioux, who saw their comrade fall, rushed at once upon the poor 
drummer. After a vigorous defence of himself, for a very brief 
space, against the first assailant, he perceived that there was no 
chance for him against such fearful odds: and he began to think, 
that his legs, though not much bigger, might be of more service to 
him, at that period, than his drum-sticks. He instantly turnea 
to run. The Indian, lifting his tomahawk, sprang forward, and 
seized him by the hair. Fincher, it seems, wore a wig. I never 
suspected it before. This remained in the hand of the astonished 
Indian ; and to this circumstance alone the poor drummer owed his 
preservation at that moment. The other Indians, however, were 
pressing upon his heels. I witnessed the scene at a short distance, 
and, with two or three riflemen who were near me, hastened to the 
spot, and rescued the poor fellow from his peril, which certainly 
was imminent. When you see Fincher, do not forget to tell him 
that I have recently heard news of his wig. The identical Sioux, 
who took Fincher’s wig at St. Clair’s defeat, was seen Math the 
wig upon his head, not many years ago, by Mr. Flint, the author 
of Recollections in the Valley of the Mississippi.* A very pale face 
and a very stout heart,” continued the colonel, “are not unfre- 
quently found in the same individual, I recollect a remarkable 
illustration of this truth, which occurred during Queen Anne’s 
wars. The Earl of Stair had obtained some successes over the 


* Flint’.s " Recollections,” &c., p, 155. 
23 


TOL. II. 


266 


MARGARET’S BRIDAI 


French, and, on the very day of the battle, some of the captured 
French officers were invited by his lordship to dinner, in his quarters. 
One of them, a French colonel of infantry, differing from the earl, 
in regard to some particular incident of the battle, the earl called 
upon his aide-de-camp. Lord Mark Kerr, for a confirmation of 
his statement. Lord Mark was a very small man, with a very 
pale face, wholly unattractive to the eye, and one of the very last 
men, whom you would have chosen, on the strength of his per- 
sonal appearance, if you had been in search of a chevalier. He 
very fully confirmed the statement of his uncle, the Earl of Stair. 
Whereupon the French officer, in some way or other, without the 
employment of any particularly offensive expression, contrived to 
offer him an insult. Frenchmen are very clever at this, you know ; 
without uttering a syllable, they can convey an insult, by a shrug 
of the shoulder, or in the very manner, in which they take a pinch 
of snuff, in your presence. Lord Mark Kerr took not the least 
apparent notice of the occurrence. An unpleasant sensation, how- 
ever, was produced, and the entertainment passed off rather dryly to 
the close. About three quarters of an hour after all the company 
had de*parted. Lord Mark returned alone. He found his uncle 
walking to and fro, with an anxious countenance. ‘ Nephew,’ said 
he, ‘ it is inexpressibly painful to me, by any suggestion of mine, to 
lead -one, whom I love so truly, into peril. You know my abhor- 
rence of these rules of honor. I wish they were abolished by com- 
mon consent, and others, founded in common sense, substituted in 
their stead. But, as it is, it is utterly impossible for military men, 
at the present day, to permit an insult to pass with impunity. The 
French colonel offered you a direct insult, at my table, to-day. 
Every one perceived it.’ — ‘Give yourself no uneasiness on that 
account, my lord,’ replied his nephew ; ‘ I have called him to account. 
— They are now burying him in the outer court.’* I will give you 
another remarkable example. In the year seventeen hundred and 

” — “ Colonel,” said the Kentuckian, rising from his seat, 

“ s’pose you put that off till arter supper ; it ’ll be hog and hom’ny 
to me to hear ye talk it over about the revolutioners, till midnight. 
But ye see they ’re all gone up, and I reckon, by the noise over- 
nead, they’ve got at it.” — “True, true,” said Colonel Byeily 
“ I had quite forgot it ; let us go up.” 

We were soon upon the deck. The noise appeared to be occa 
sioned Vy a fellow, whose bloated countenance and shabby garments 
of the most fashionable cut withal, were evidently the insigni? ol 


* Wraxall’s “ Memoirs.” 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


267 


dissipation and dirt. He was surrounded by a goodly number of 
the passengers, who were listening to his song. I obser-ved Parson 
M’Ninny, not within the circle precisely, but within hearing, lean- 
ing over the tafFerel, and smoking a cigar. When this wretched 
singer of vicious doggerel came to the chorus, which was of frequent 
occurrence, the eyes of the whole group were turned upon the Rev. 
Mr. M’Ninny. I caught the last words — 

“ He ’ll chat with a lass, 

And he ’ll take off his glass, 

And he is the parson for me.” 

“ Very w’ell,” said Colonel Byerly, as we turned away in disgust, 
“this is all perfectly fair; if a clergyman, in the present condition 
of public sentiment, purified as it is, on certain subjects, will take 
his glass and his cigar, and openly defend the practice, he gets no 
more than his deserts,” — Our Kentucky friend soon reported, that 
the Rev. Mr. Egerton was nowhere upon deck. I had therefore no 
other occupation than gazing upon the beautiful river, and the scenery 
around, and listening to the interesting remarks of my new acquaint- 
ances. “ Really,” said Colonel Byerly, “ we have made more pro- 
gress than I supposed ; we have gotten below the Big Guyundat, 
haven’t we?” — “ To be sure,” replied Kennedy; “ we ’re nigh upon 
Old Kentuck; there, stranger,” he continued, turning to me, “that 
are fine stream ye see, comin in from the left side, is the Great Sandy ; 
some folks call it the Tottery River ; when we pass the mouth on ’t, 
we ’ll be along side of Old Kentuck. That river ’s the boundary 
’twixt Kentuck and Virginny. We ’ll then be jest forty-five miles 
below Galliopolis. When the lawyers made them French frogs hop 
off in a hurry, congress took pity on ’em, and gin ’em a restin-place, 
a leetle further down ; we han’t come to 't yet. It ’s on t’ other 
side. None on ’em come to Kentuck. The colonel can tell ye all 
about that, stranger; it ’s on his side o’ the river.” — “ Yes,” said 
Colonel Byerly, “ the French emigrants were settled afterwards 
about Burrsburgh, which we shall come to presently, on the right 
bank. The town was laid out by Jean Gabriel Gervais, whom I 
remember well, and was part of a tract of twenty-four thousand 
acres granted them by congress.” 

A-t this moment, some one near us said, “He’s coming up;’' 
and, looking round, we perceived Mr. Egerton, the young clergy- 
man, ascending from the cabin, and advancing slowly towards the 
after deck. The group soon became aware of his approach. 

‘ Mark the difference,” said Colonel Byerly ; “ they have already 
learned to respect him witness the effect of his presence!” — It 


268 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


was even so ; the song had ceased ; the shabby performer bad slunk 
away ; with one or two exceptions, every countenance had assumed 
a graver expression ; and even Parson M’Ninny had thrown his 
unfinished cigar into the Ohio, and, having hastily adjusted the collar 
of his dicky, and brushed the tobacco embers from his waistcoat, 
rose at his approach.* 

“I should have paid my respects to you before, sir,” said the 
young clergyman, addressing the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny, “but some 
friends, who are in feeble health, required my attention. I have 
come, rather to redeem my pledge, than with any expectation of 
producing or experiencing a change of sentiment in you or myself. 
I have no desire, in this discussion to argue for victory. The subject 

is certainly an important one, and ” — “ Well, well, sir,” said 

his opponent, with some impatience, “ the preface is certainly long 
enough already ; you can proceed, and I will hear what you have 
to say, if you will confine yourself within reasonable bounds.” — 
The Rev. Mr. M’Ninny’s face was considerably flushed ; his brow 
was clouded ; and his words were indistinctly and sluggishly uttered 
His reply to Mr. Egerton was so discourteous, that Colonel Byerly, 
whose prompt and open temper, and sincere respect for the rights 
of others, ever induced him to side with the aggrieved, could no 
longer keep silence. “ Mr. M’Ninny,” said he, “ this young gen 
tleman is a stranger to me ; but I was so much gratified, by his 
manner of treating the subject, this morning, that, with your per- 
mission, 1 should be pleased to listen to his remarks, without any 
other limitation, in regard to time, than such as his own sense of 
propriety may indicate.” — “Ditto to Colonel Byerly,” said the 
Kentuckian. — A murmur of approbation ran through the assembled 
group. “Certainly, certainly, mpst. assuredly. Colonel Byerly,” 
said Mr. M’Ninny, with sundry salaams ; “please to proceed, sir. 
[ have quite forgotten at what point we broke off this morning.” — 

You were alluding, sir,” said Mr. Egerton, “to the miracle at 
Cana, and you proposed certain questions. I will now answer those 
questions ; or, rather, I will endeavor to answer the argument, 
vshich you intended, by those questions, to convey. Certainly our 
Saviour converted water into wine, upon that occasion ; he was 
present, and, if you please, a guest ; and, though we know not the 
fact, it is quite probable he partook of the miraculous beverage. It 
is your object to employ this act of our Saviour, as a precedent. 
I d authorize any act by a precedent, the act to be sustained must 
^ 

* “ Turn, pietate gravem ac meritis si forte virum quem 

CouspexAre, silent, arrectisque auribus adstant ; 

Isi.e regit dictis anunos, et pectora mulcet.” — iEN. I. v. 161. 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


269 


conform to the precede at. If our Lord took wine at a wedding, this 
surely is no precedent for my taking it, on other occasions, at home 
and abroad, in taverns and steam-boats. Then, again, it is not pre- 
tended, nor can it be presumed, that the wine at Cana differed in 
strength from other wine, used at that time, in Galilee. Of course 
it could not be a mixture of the fermented juice of the grape and 
distilled spirit. Yet such is the wine commonly drunken at wed- 
dings and upon most other occasions ; and I doubt, sir, if, esi)ecially 
at weddings, you ever drank any other wine, than such as contained 
a very considerable proportion of distilled spirit — a thing unused 
and unknown in our Saviour’s time upon earth. The precedent, 
therefore, cannot apply, unless we employ the same unenforced wine 
as was at that time in use. Besides, there was nothing like a 
command, at Cana, to take wine. The guests might take it, or not, 
as they pleased.” — “Very well, sir,” said Mr. M’Ninny, “that 
is just the thing, for which we contend at the present day.” — “ I 
have already remarked,” continued Mr. Egerton, “ that the wine at 
Cana was, beyond all doubt, a very different thing from modern 
wine, a more pure and a much less fiery beverage. Nevertheless, 
as it was undoubtedly an intoxicating beverage, after fermentation 
had taken place, I am by no means disposed to rest the argument 
upon this circumstance alone. When we propose the pledge of 
total abstinence, we are very frequently opposed by this objection — 
our Saviour made wine, at Cana, and therefore — for such is the 
absurd conclusion — we ought not to abandon the use of wine mixed 
with distilled spirit, as all modem wine is well known to be, with 
exceptions too unimportant and too rare to require notice. Because 
our Saviour made such wine as the wine at Cana, and presented it 
to the guests, at a wedding feast, it is highly improper to propose 
the relinquishment of our modern enforced wine upon other occa- 
sions ! Total abstinence from all intoxicating liquors must there- 
fore be deemed impracticable, because our Saviour once set the mild 
wine of Galilee before the guests at a wedding feast ! Though our 
blessed Master did not command them to drink that wine, he, upon 
another occasion, did absolutely command us to abstain from drunk- 
enness. Now, it is truly believed, by a very large and daily increas- 
ing number of our fellow-men, that we can more effectually obey 
this, our Lord’s most positive command, by totally abstaining from 
all intoxicating liquors, tha;\ in any other manner. Suppose we 
were permitted to plead the infirmity of our nature before our divine 
Master, and ask if we might not be permitted, in aid of our weak- 
ness, to avoid these fountains of temptation in every ^orm. Would 
he be very likely to refuse our importunity, if we were really in 
VOL. II. 23 * 


270 


MARGARET’S BRIFAL. 


earnest, and i?emind us that the whole question was settled at the 
marriage of Cana in Galilee, and that total abstinence from wine wa« 
therefore offensive in his sight 1 If such a supposition be not the 

very height of absurdity ” — “ my name an’t Boon Kennedy,” 

cried the Kentuckian, who had become deeply interested in the argu- 
ment. “ Beg your pardon, sir, for interruptin on ye,” continued 
he, “ but I couldn’t hold in jest at that minnit.” 

A short pause ensued. “ I desire not to be one of those, who are 
more nice than wise,” said Mr. M’Ninny, “ and I would caution 
you in regard to the danger of being overwise, or wise above what 
is written.” — Mr. Egerton, after a short silence, during which a 
faint smile played upon his pale features, expressive of his convic- 
tion that no further reply was required from him, proceeded as fol- 
lows : — “I suggested, this morning, when you first alluded to the 
circumstance of taking wine at a wedding, that you could not be 
aware you had touched a chord of the most painful interest to me. 
Such, however, was the fact. Since our short separation I have 
asked myself, if I ought not to make a considerable personal sacri 
fice of my own feelings, for the benefit of others; and I have de- 
cided, that I ought so to do. If you have no better employment, my 
friends, than to listen to a narrative, which may prove, in some of 
its details, not altogether uninteresting, and which perhaps may 
furnish a profitable warning for some of you, I will trespass upon 
your patience still further.” — The Rev. Mr. M’Ninny drew out his 
watch, with great formality, and began to gape. “ You may about 
as well put up your tarnip, stranger,” said the Kentuckian, who 
had observed the action ; “this ’ere young man an’t agoin to run 
agin time, and them what ’s sleepish may as well turn in. Won’t 
ye please to go ahead, sir,” turning to Mr. Egerton. — “ We shall 
listen to your narrative,” said Colonel Byerly, “ I doubt not, with 
pleasure and profit.” 

“ We frequently err, I am well aware,” continued Mr. Egerton, 
“ in the supposition, that certain occurrences must be interesting to 
all the world, because they are so to ourselves. If the simple nar- 
rative, which I am about to relate, should be found wearisome t* 
any one of you, my friends, I shall not take it amiss, if the number 
of my auditors should become less and less, as I proceed in the rela- 
tion. — Among the playmates of my earliest years, there was one, 
to whom I was attached, for various considerations, more firmly than 
to any other. Our parents were farmers, and their estates were 
separated by a winding brook, which, although easily forded by 
elder boys, was a perfect Rubicon to George Morgan and myself, 
when our acquaintance began. ^ There was a rock in the middle of 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


27 


this run of water, and I well remember the period of my existence, 
when it seemed to George and to me, as we stood upon our respec- 
tive sides of this mighty barrier, negotiating an exchange between a 
bunch of daisies and a straw of thimbleberries, that our ambition, in 
this present world, would be gratified to its utmost possible limit, if 
v.'e could contrive a plan to get upon that rock, and, according to tho 
phraseology of our cottage, eat our dippers together. Old Stubbs, 
a negro man, who had been long in the service of Farmer Morgan, 
and who was extremely fond of little George, comprehending our 
wishes, placed a board from each bank to the midway rock, over 
which we proceeded, with great delight, and sat down, side by side, 
and, in the language of another, ‘ swore perpetual amity.’ When I 
first perused the account of the shallop, moored in the middle of the 
river Audaye, in which Francis the First, after his long imprison- 
ment, was permitted, for a moment only, to see his children, the 
Dauphin and Duke of Orleans, the recollection of our rock in the 
little rivulet came forcibly before me. Napoleon and Alexander, 
when they met upon ‘the raft of Tilsit,’ -in the middle of the 
Niemen, embraced not with a thousandth part of the cordiality, 
which characterized our first interview upon the rock.* We did 
not proceed, like the great French robber and the greedy autocrat 
of all the Russias, to portion out the fair world between ourselves ; 
but we, then and there, established our future relations, upon a basis 
exceedingly agreeable to the high contracting parties. It was agreed 
that George should, at all times, cross over and help himself to any 
flowers in my garden, and that I should have an uninterrupted range 
along the entire length of Thimbleberry wall. In short, we formed 
an alliance oflfensive and defensive forever. You will forgive me for 
dwelling thus minutely upon such comparatively unimportant inci- 
dents as these. There are few occurrences, wl ich memory recalls 
more easily or with a purer delight, than these recollections of our 
early days. 

“ However important to ourselves, nothing, surely, would be more 
uninteresting to the world at large, than the detail of our juvenile 
years. Such occupations, such cares, such pleasures were ours, as 
ordinarily fall to the lot of the children of upright and industrious 
husbandmen. When I look around me, and institute a comparison, 
at the present day, I am rejoiced to believe, that our worthy parents 
have been as constantly and powerfully governed, through life, by 
moral and religious principle, as any of their neighbors. 

“When George Morgan had attained the age of eighteen years 

* “ Sic parvis componere magna solebam.” 


272 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


his constitution, which was at no time, within my recollecticn, hale 
and robust, began to give such evidences of weakness, as made it 
apparent, that the labors of the farm were more than he could per- 
manently endure. We had an old physician in our village, who 
emigrated many years before from Scotland — Dr. Sawney M’Phail. 
My recollections of the old gentleman are altogether agreeable He 
had an unusually winning way with him, in his intercourse with 
children. Our clergyman, though a man of exemplary piety, was 
remarkable for an austerity of manners, bordering even upon rough- 
ness. It was a by- word among our young people, that w’e had 
rather take jalap from Dr. Sawney than gingerbread from Parson 
Scroggs. The doctor gave his opinion, that it was absolutely neces- 
sary for George Morgan to seek some other occupation, and that 
his physical strength was altogether unequal to the labors of the 
field. His father, who had the most implicit confidence in the doc- 
tor’s judgment, readily acquiesced in the decision. 

“ Our family were well aware that George Morgan had not the 
most vigorous constitution, and hints had been occasionally dropped, 
that he might, at some time, not far distant perhaps, find it neces- 
sary to relinquish the farmer’s life. The tidings, when they came 
to us at last, were, nevertheless, entirely unexpected, and filled our 
little household with surprise, not altogether unmingled with pain. 
We had assembled together, one summer evening, as usual. My 
father and myself had just hung our scythes upon the old oak before 
our door, and were entering our cottage ; my mother was prepar- 
ing the tea-table, and my sister Margaret was at the ironing-board, 
when Dr. M’Phail rode up on his old gray mare. ‘ Come in, doc- 
tor,’ cried my father ; ‘ we ’re better pleased to see ye, than if we 
were ailing ; we ’re just sitting down to table, and wife, I see, has 
got some fine trout in the spider.’ — ‘ Trout, mon !’ cried the doc- 
tor; — ‘hiud your gait, ye jade,’ addressing his old mare, ‘and 
I ’ll make your harden a wee bit lighter. — Aweel, gude wife,’ con- 
tinued he, addressing my mother, ‘ I ’ll taste your bannocks. Trout 
is it, eyP looking over my mother's shoulder into the spider. — 
‘ Yes, doctor,’ said my mother, ‘ and you ’re always welcome.’ — 
‘ I ’ve ken’d that aboot twanty years, luckie,’ replied the doctor ; 
‘ but I ’ll jest gi’ the old mare a bidding.’ — ‘ My son shall take her 
home for you, doctor,’ said my father. — ‘ Na, na,’ said the doctor, 
‘ the callan ’s waary o’ his day’s wark, an’ auld Dobbin kens the 
shart way weel enough.’ So saying, he threw the bridle over her 
neck, and, slapping her on the back, ‘ Gang hame, beastie,’ said he ; 
and away she went, like a well-trained trooper’s horse without its 
rider. ‘ She ’s cannie, said the doctoi ; ‘ she ’ll be at her fother 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


273 


right soon ; an’ she ’ll wait for ’em at the dooi to take off the bags 
first. If she should rowl, or rampauge it, there ’d be meikle bad 
wark amang the potions and the plasters, to be sure. — Weel,’ 
resumed the doctor, as he took his seat in the arm-chair, which I 
had placed for him near the window, ‘ weel, Georgy Rlorgan will 
be ganging fro’ ye soon ; he ’s to larn the humanities at the univar- 
sity.’ — ‘ How you talk !’ said my mother, suspending her opera- 
tions. My sister Margaret, who had just taken a hot iron from the 
fire, set it down, almost involuntarily, upon her best collar, which 
she was preparing to iron, and stared at the doctor in utter astonish- 
ment. ‘ Hout, Margery,’ cried Dr. M’Phail, ‘where’s the bogle 
that frights ye, hiney 1 I ’m only telling yc, that Georgy Moigan ’s 
to gang away to larn the humanities, and yc ’re as clane bewildered 
as though I toult ye that he was a ghaist. Look there now, your 
hot iron has barnt clane through your napery.’ — ‘ Doctor,’ said I, 
while Margaret was recovering from her confusion, ‘ is George really 
going to college — ‘ It ’s a’ settled,’ said the doctor, ‘ an’ ye may 
live to see him git a thump, afoor he dies, at the pvipit o’ Parson 
Scroggs, if ony o’ it is left, whin the auld minister comes to rist fro’ 
his labors.’ 

“ The intelligence, communicated by Dr. M’Phail, certainly 
produced a solemnizing, perhaps a depressing effect upon our 
little circle ; though it might have been somewhat perplexing for 
some of us to analyze those feelings, which that intelligence pro- 
duced. I felt that we .were already separated — that I had already 
lost the companion of my childhood, the friend of my youth. It 
appeared to me, that, while my own humble lot was fixed forever, 
his was a career, whose limit must depend upon his talent and appli- 
cation ; and that he was to enter upon a path, whither it was impos- 
sible for me to follow. — ‘Well,’ said my mother, ‘George Mor- 
gan will be a great man, one of these days, I suppose, and hold his 
head above us all, and forget his old friends, as like as not.’ — ‘ He 
is a worthy young man,’ said my father. — ‘ A bonny chiel,’ said 
the doctor, ‘ an’ he ’ll na forget ane that it ’s warth his while 
to remember. Georgy Morgan ’s not the callan to gi’ never a 
thought to auld lang syne ; is he sic a loon as that, Margery Eger- 
ton?’ — This direct and energetic appeal from the good old doctor 
was too much for poor Margaret ; she buried her face in her hands 
and rushed out of the apartment. ‘ Weel, weel,’ said the doctor, 
after she had gone, ‘ if Georgy Morgan were to see the puir thing 
rill away at the very, sound o’ his name, I faar ’t would be like to 
take away his relish for the humanities; but come, gude wife, let 
us taste •)’ the trout and the bannocks ; are they nieikle plenty in 


274 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


A 

the bumie, Wilie Egertoni’ turning to me. 1 replied in the 
affirmative, and told him that I had left a dozen of the best at his 
lodging-house. ‘Ah, Willie,’ said he, ‘ye was a bonny chiel 
yoursel, though Georgy was ever the mair patient listener o’ tho 
twa. Don’t ye remember, whin I was repeating poor Bobby 
Burns’s Twa Dogs t’ ye baith, how, in the most interesting part o’ 
it, ye ran off like mad after a moudiwort that crapt out o’ the wa’, 
ey, Willie? Weel, it’s hard to part ye twa lads. Frind Eger- 
ton,’ continued the doctor, addressing my father, ‘ Willie 's na the 
stoutest, naather ; why na lit ’em gang thegither, ey, mon?’ — ‘ O 
doctor,’ said my father, ‘ my neighbor, Mr. Morgan, is a great deal 
better off than I am, and George is an only child.’ — ‘ The charge 
will na be sa meikle more,’ said the doctor. — ‘ 1 have not the 
wherewithal,’ replied my father, ‘ to send my sop to college. Dr. 
M’Phail ; it ’s entirely out of the question. I ha^ i other chi'.lren 

to support, and ’ ‘Weel, weel,’ cried the 4octor, ‘we say 

in the auld country, it matters na whether a thing ?ost a pund star- 
ling or a bawbee, if a mon has na got the bawbee Willie,’ contin- 
ued the doctor, ‘ would ye like to gang, ey, chiel ' — I replied *hat 
I did not like to burden my father, and that I was -<i<?are my ser* ’ces 
were necessary upon the farm. — ‘ I am afraid trout are not 
cooked to your liking, doctor,’ said my mother. — ‘ Troth, an’ they 
are, goody Egerton,’ replied the doctor, who, k»» a brief space, 
seemed to be playing idly with his knife and fork : ‘ but I was, just 
then, sitting under the roof o’ my ain bien ho*^ upon Tweed's 
side. I ’m there in a twdnkling. But all that I javed are under the 
sod ; there ’s na kith nor kin o’ mine in all Scotjj^d now. And so 
ye ’ll na send Willie to larn the humanities, ey, iiei-ghbor Egerton?’ 
— ‘ If I could see my way clear in the matter, r^^plied my father, 
‘ I should have no objection ; but as it is, it st^ious entirely out of 
the question.’ — ‘ Weel, now,’ said the doctor, ‘ m sic a matter can 
ye na club the siller amang yourselves? It ’ll be na sma’ thing for 
Willie, ye ken, and he ’s your only son, neighbor Egerton.’ — ‘ If 
George Morgan is to go,’ said my mother, ‘ I se* not why our Wil 
liam might not make as good a figure as he or ai*v other lad, I don’ 
care who he is. Sukey Morgan will hold her iiead high enough 
I guess, if a son of hers ever gets to college.’ — ‘The question 
wife,’ said my father, ‘ is not what sort of a figure William wouh- 
make, nor how high Sukey Morgan will hold her head if George 
should go to C' liege, but how we can find the means of supporting 
William at the university. I owe almost nothing beside the old 
mortgage, and that is well nigh paid off. It has been rny hope, and 
the end of all my labor and saving, for many yeara clear the 


MABGARET’S BRmAL. 


275 


©state, and leave it unencumbered to my wife and children when 1 

die. The thought of increasing my debt is ’ — ‘ 0, father,^ 

said I, ‘ don’t think of it ; I don’t care a fig about going to college.” 

— ‘ Don’t tell a lee, Willie,’ said the old doctor, with a knowing 
look ; ‘ are ye na the very chiel yoursel that tould aulc Master 
Moody ye ’d be mair than willing to gie ane o’ your twa een an’ ye 
could be permitted to study with the tither, foor years in the univar- 
sity ?’ — ‘ Dr. M’Phail,’ said my sister Margaret, who had returned 
to the apartment, and taken her seat quietly at the tea-table, ‘ how 
much would it cost 1 Would it cost more than a hundred dollars!’ 

— ‘ A hunder dollars ! ’ cried the doctor, lifting up his hands ; ‘ hout, 
lassie, to be sure, and an unco parcel o’ the siller beside. But I 
ken what ye maan weel enough. It ’s the hunder dollars ye ’re 
thinking o’ that were lift to ye, by the will of your auld aunt Hepsy 
Harraden, and it saams ye ’re willing to gie the whole hunder away 
for Willie to he educated at the univarsity.’ — ‘ I am, indeed, doc- 
tor,’ said Margaret, while the tear glistened in her eye. — ‘ Hout, 
tout, bonnie lassie,’ cried the doctor, ‘ na a dollar o’ it shall iver 
gang that gait, whiles Sawney M’Phail ’s the executor o’ auld Hepsy 
Harraden’s last will and testament. But supposing I choose to 
take the cost and charge o’ Willie’s laming upon my ain self, who 
has a better right? I halp’d him, the wee bairn that he was, into 
this warld o’ care, and he ’s iver been a guid chiel, bating a lee tie 
inattention, whin I ’m repeating a Scotch ballad or sic like. Now 
ye ken, as I toult ye, that I ’ve naather kith nor kin ; and so, neigh- 
bor Egerton, if ye ’ll na stand i’ the way, I ’ll pay the scot, and ilka 
bawbee for Willie’s laming the humanities shall come out my ain 
pocket, mon ; so make yourself aisy.’ — ‘God reward you, doctor,’ 
said my father, with a faltering voice ; ‘ I fear I never shall be able 
to do so, myself.’ — ‘Dear doctor,’ cried my mother, as her eyes 
were filling with grateful tears, ‘ you have eaten nothing ; do let me 
put a hot trout upon your plate ; ’ at the same moment, in her con- 
fusion, transferring one from the spider to her own instead of the 
doctor’s. Poor Margaret was thoroughly intoxicated with dehght. 

— ‘Dr. M’Phail!’ she cried, as she sprang from her chair, and, 
throwing her arms around the old man’s neck, almost smothered 
him with kisses and tears. The kind-hearted old gentleman was 
himself overcome by these simple testimo ues of grateful respect. — ■ 
‘ I maun be ganging,’ said he, as he wiped the tear from his eye ; 
‘ I maun be ganging. I did na ken I was sic an auld fool as I am.’ 
He disengaged himself from Margaret’s affectionate embrace, and, 
giving my parents a hearty shake hy the hand, he took his leave. 
The tumult of happiness in my own bosom I can no more now 


276 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


describe, than I could then control it. The highest object of my 
ambition appeared to be already within my grasp. I had carefully 
forborne lo give my father pain, by expressing a wish, which I knew 
he had i >t the power to gratify ; yet among the most attractive 
of all tluse gay imaginings, those castles, which I certainly sup- 
posed were castles in tbe air, was the vision of a collegiate educa- 
tion. I was utterly unable to make the good doctor the slightest 
acknowledgment. I slunk out of the room, and, after his depart- 
ure, ran across a wood-lot to intercept him, in a solitary part of the 
road, which I knew he would take on his way homeward. I over- 
took him precisely as I had expected ; but, when I had leapt over 
the wall, and seized him by the hand, I could not utter an intelligi- 
ble sentence. ‘ Doctor,’ said I, — ‘ Dr. M’Phail, you don’t know 
’ — ‘ Yes, I do, Willie,’ said he, comprehending my embar- 
rassment, ‘ I ken it a’. Gang hame, chiel, gang hame, and tell 
your father, that the sooner ye ’re with Master Moody, the sooner 
ye ’ll be ganging to the univarsity.’ 

“ The detail of our preparatory course is of little importance. 
Dr. M’Phail made the necessary arrangements ; my father soon 
employed a hired man to supply my place upon the farm ; and 
George Morgan and myself exchanged our rustic occupation for the 
pursuits of literature, under the direction of Master Moody ; and, in 
the ordinary course of time, were prepared for the university. 

“ Chemical results from certain combinations are not more surely 
anticipated, than the _ advantages of a liberal, as we commonly 
express it, meaning a collegiate, education. To say nothing of that 
difference in the result, which must necessarily depend upon differ- 
ence of intellectual vigor and application, there is manifestly a 
superior ability in some to pass on securely, amidst those numerous 
temptations, which are spread abroad in the purlieus of every 
university. When we contemplate the striking deficiency of moral 
training in some, whose good moral character is duly certified at the 
time of their admission, and the extreme, constitutional volatility of 
others, there is nothing unreasonable in the supposition, that there 
are, in certain individuals, peculiar aptitudes for destruction. It 
may follow from these considerations, that there are some, whose 
temperament is so poorly calculated for all the chances and changes 
of a college life, that the difficulties, attendant upon some other 
system of education, whatever they may be, are outweighed, by the 
manifest perils of an experiment at the university. 

“ George Morgan had been reared by his parents, with a strict 
regard for moral and religious principle. He had always been 
remarkable for the vivacity of his disposition ; his habits, previously 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


277 


<0 his admission to the university, had been correct and even exem- 
plary. But the excitement, the novelty, the temptations of a college 
life were too much for him. It would be unnecessary — to me it 
would be a most painful task — to give you a minute history of the 
decline and fall of my ui happy friend. He commenced his unfor- 
tunate career in social drinking, and in those college clubs, which 
have proved the primary schools, where many have acquired their 
first lessons of intemperance. At the close of his junior year, he 
was withdrawn from the university by his unhappy parents, on 
account of his notoriously intemperate habits. My own unwearied 
solicitation, the constant appeals of his parents, and of good old 
Dr. M’Phail, the admonitions of those among the college govern- 
ment, who took a special interest in his welfare, were unavailing. 
His separation from the university appeared not to be attended with 
those beneficial effects, which had been anticipated by his parents 
and friends. The virus, if I may be allowed the expression, seemed 
to have mingled with his blood. The fact could no longer be con- 
cealed. College wine, which had unquestionably been the great 
first cause of his ruin, speedily gave place to village rum — George 
Morgan was a drunkard ! His father bore up under this terrible 
affliction, with a measure of fortitude, entirely unexpected by his 
friends ; but his poor mother was completely overthrown. When- 
ever my parents attempted to offer her any species of consolation, 
‘ Ah, neighbor Egerton,’ she would say, ‘ if it had been your 
William, you could have borne it better, for you would not have 
been entirely bereaved ; you could have turned for comfort and 
support to your other children ; but it is a grievous thing,’ she would 
say, while the tears ran down her cheeks, ‘ it is a grievous thing to 
be the thankless mother of an only child ! ’ 

“ There was one, upon whose gentle spirit this misery fell like 
the blasting mildew upon the tender leaf. The attachment, between 
George Morgan and my sister Margaret, was a matter of general 
notoriety over the village. It had grown with their growth and 
strengthened with their strength; yet there had never been any 
formal understanding upon this subject, between our respective 
parents. I once heard Mr. Morgan say to my father, as we were 
re turning from meeting, one Sabbath afternoon, pointing at the same 
time over his shoulder towards George and Margaret, who had 
separated themselves from our little group, as usual, and were 
lingering far behind — ‘If my boy and your girl,’ said he, ‘keep 
on as they have done, a few years longer, I should n’t be surprised 
if they finally tied themselves and our two estates together.’ — ‘ I ’ll 
put my girl,’ said my father, ‘ against your boy, but her part of my 

VOL II. 24 


278 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


little homestead against all yours, neighbor Morgan, would scarcely 
be fair.’ — ‘A good wife never made a poor man poorer,’ said the 
other, ‘ and broad acres never helped any man to bear a vixen’s 
tongue the better. It ’s a fair trade, friend Egerton ; Margaret ’s a 
good girl ; let ’em settle it their own way.’ — ‘ I ’m content,’ replied 
my father ; ‘ and if she proves as good a wife to George, as she has 
been a daughter to me, the bargain may be a fair one after all.’ 

“ The subject of George Morgan’s intemperance was so exceed- 
ingly painful to my sister, that we seldom alluded to it, unless when 
introduced by herself. If his reformation could have been achieved, 
by the tears and entreaties of this poor girl, it would surely have 
been accomplished. Her extreme solicitude preyed upon her spirits, 
and her health began visibly to decline. George still occasionally 
visited at our house, and, upon these occasions, his behavior was 
such as to encourage our hopes, which were invariably extinguished 
in the course of two or three days, by the tidings of some new 
indiscretion. Dr. M’Phail earnestly advised, that Margaret should 
refuse to see him, except in the presence of her parents, unless he 
thoroughly reformed ; that she should dismiss him formally as hei 
suitor, and, as far as possible, from her thoughts. George Morgan’s 
mother protested with great earnestness against this advice. ‘ You 
will drive my poor child,’ said she, ‘ to absolute despair. He 
believes that he has but one friend upon earth ; and if he is to he 
told that he has not anything to hope from her affection, there will 
remain nothing between him and utter destruction. Save my poor 
boy, Margaret ; it is yourself alone that can do this. No one has 
such an influence over him. He loves you better than anything in 
this world.’ — ‘ Na, na, goody Morgan,’ said the doctor; ‘ he has 
unco mair luve for his cursed buttle.’ — ‘ O, Dr. M’Phail,’ cried 
Mrs. Morgan, ‘ how can you be so cruel as to destroy the only hope 
we have of George’s reformation ; it is the only life-boat that can 
save my unhappy son.’ — ‘ It ’s na in my nature, goody Morgan, to 
be cruel,’ replied the doctor, as he brushed away the tear which this 
exhibition of maternal anguish had brought into his eye ; ‘ and as 
for the life-boat, that ’s to save your chiel, goody Morgan, it ’s mair 
o’ a puir frail thing than ye ken for, and mair likely to gang down 
amang the troubled waters, than to gie halp to anither.’ 

“ My parents were sufficiently impressed with Dr. M’Phail’s 
opinion, and urged every argument in its favor. For several days 
after this conversation, my sister observed an unusual silence, and 
confined herself as much as possible to her private apartment. We 
had become extremely anxious for the result. One Sabbath morn- 
when we had prepared to go to meeting, and weie sitting ii 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


279 


silence, awaiting the sound of the village hell my sister came down 
with a smile upon her pale features, so perfectly serene, that my 
mother expressed her satisfaction, at the improvemept, in her appear- 
ance. ‘ My dear father and mother,’ said Margaret, after a short 
pause, ‘ how truly I love you both ! — how I shall ever bless you 
for bringing me up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord ! — 
for teaching me to love his tabernacles ! — for clasping my infant 
hands in prayer ! It is thus I have gathered strength upon the 
present occasion. My mind is now at ease. The services of the 
sanctuary will afford me additional support — this day, George will 
surely abstain from his habit sufficiently to enable me to bid him 
farewell. — I dare not tempt the vengeance of Heaven, by wedding 
a drunkard.’ She then requested me to ask George to meet her 
for a few moments, that evening, at the willows. These willows 
skirted the river road, as it was called, for the length of half a mile, 
and formed one of the boundaries of the Morgan farm. The inter 
view was brief, but undoubtedly attended with great suffering to 
both parties. Apprehensive that she might not be able to sustain 
herself, I had secretly followed her steps, and stationed myself at a 
convenient distance. George was first at this well-known, and oft- 
frequented place of meeting. His appearance was more respectable 
than usual. He had evidently paid more than ordinary attention to 
his attire, and was not, apparently, under the influence of liquor. 
When Margaret approached, he turned hastily to meet her, with an 
expression of great satisfaction upon his countenance ; for it was a 
long time since she had consented to meet him at the willows, and 
her manners towards him, for many months, had been marked with 
that air of painful solemnity, which his conduct would be so likely 
to produce. ‘ I am rejoiced to meet you here once more, dear Mar- 
garet,’ said he, extending his hand. She stood before him like a 
statue, but so greatly agitated, that I could plainly perceive the 
tremulation of her whole figure. The smile of satisfaction, which 
lighted up his features, when they first met, had speedily vanished, 
and given place to an expression of astonishment, mingled with 
dread ; for I have no doubt, that, with a recollection of her previous 
intimations, he already began to anticipate the object of her sum- 
mons. ‘ Will you not give me your hand, Margaret?’ said he, once 
more extending his own, and gazing intently upon her pale and 
agitated features. — ‘George,’ she replied, ‘I have given you my 
whole heart. I fondly expected to have given you my hand, at the 
altar, before God and man, and to have walked through this fair 
world with you, for my best earthly friend. I w'ould have given 
you, George Morgan, all that a poor girl has to give, but her hopss 


280 


MARGARET’S BRmAL. 


of happiness, in a better world. But the vision is past — I have 
come to bid you farewell.’ — ‘Margaret,’ he replied, ‘you have 
often said, that you would never break your word. You have 
promised to be mine.’ — ‘I promised to be the wife of George 
Morgan, whose dear, bright eye and ruddy cheek T well remember : 
when I made that promise, could he suppose I would ever listen to 
a drunkard, who came, in his name and stead, to claim the privileges 
of a lover! This may sound harshly, but I have sought the path of 
duty, with many tears and many prayers, and therein will I walk.’ 
I had not given my poor sister credit for half the firmness and 
energy, which she exhibited upon the present occasion. ‘ Marga- 
ret,’ said he, after a short pause, ‘ I think I comprehend all this : a 
woman’s fancy is liable to change ; and I have lately heard of a 
visitor at your father’s house.’ — ‘ George — George,’ said she, with 
a trembling voice, ‘ God grant you may reform and be happy. 
This is a cruel speech, George Morgan : should you live to shed a 
lear upon my grave, it will be upon the grave of Margaret Egerton. 
Farewell; my peace requires, that henceforth I should study to 
forget you. I have no need of these memorials any more.’ As she 
uttered these words, she tendered him a small parcel, which he 
seemed almost involuntarily to receive into his hand, continuing 
silently to gaze upon her retiring steps, with an expression of amaze- 
ment. When she had passed entirely from his view, he sat down 
upon a broad stone, by the road-side, still holding the package in 
his hand. His countenance was full of sadness. Wounded pride 
had prompted his suggestion, respecting the visitor at our house. 
He knew Margaret had loved him with a perfectly single-hearted 
devotion. In a little time, he began to open the package, and as 
he drew forth a volume — a ring — his letters from the university 
— and other tokens of his affection in happier days, — the energies 
of his heart — and a warmer beat not in any bosom — broke forth in 
a perfect tumult of anguish. ‘ Merciful God !’ he exclaimed, ‘ has 
it come to this!’ The tears poured down his cheeks in a torrent, 
and he sobbed aloud. I know not that I ever felt deeper pity for 
any human being. After he had continued thus, for a considerable 
space of time, I drew nearer, though still concealed from his obser- 
vation. He began to gather up and replace the several articles, 
which Margaret had returned to him. ‘ A drunkard !’ he exclaimed ; 
‘ even she calls me a drunkard ! Men may call me so ; but to be 
proclaimed a drunkard by an angel’s voice! I am then entirely 
forsaken. Margaret has bid me farewell ! Merciful God, have 
mercy upon me, and sive me from myself!’ — As I looked upon 
the clasped hands and uplifted eyes of this wretched young man. 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 281 

Btreaming with tears, I could no longer restrain the impulse of my 
soul, and cried aloud, ‘ Amen and amen !’ 

“ He started from his seat, half offended by this sudden interrup- 
tion. He dashed the tears from his eyes ; pride, mortification, 
resentment, were already at work within, and had begun to mani- 
fest their influence upon the features of my unhappy friend. — ‘ Mr. 
Egerton,’ said he, ‘ you have surprised me at a moment of unusual 
weakness.’ — ‘ Mr. Egerton!’ I replied, seizing him by the hand — 
‘George — George Morgan, my friend and companion from the 
cradle, let there be no formality between us, 1 beseech you : do not 
call that a moment of weakness, in which you have been able to 
seek for comfort and support where alone they can be found. O. 
George, my friend, renew those supplications at the throne of grace. 
Repeat them from day to day — from hour to hour. At first, they 
may be little more than brief ejaculations, like that, which I just 
now heard you utter. Brief as they are, yet, if sincere, God will 
listen. Ere long they will become continued, fervent, habitual 
prayer, which a merciful God will surely answer. Dear friend of 
my youth, shake off this accursed habit, for the sake of your friends.’ 

— ‘ They already despise me,’ he replied. ‘ Reform then,’ said I, 
‘ for your own sake.’ — ‘ I care not what becomes of me,’ said he. 

— ‘Will you not make the effort for the sake of your old father!’ 

— ‘ He has cast me from him, and treats me harshly,’ he replied. — 
‘ There is another,’ I rejoined : ‘ will you not renounce this sin, 
which so easily besets you, for the sake of my unhappy sister!’ — 
‘ She despises me,’ he replied ; ‘ she has just now bid me farewell. 
It is not worth your while to cast your thought upon me. There is 
not a person upon earth, who does not view me with contempt.’ — 
‘ Dear George,’ said I, ‘ it is not so. Can you not summon to your 
aid the best faculties of your nature ! Can you not solemnly resolve, 
by God’s help, to relinquish this unnatural gratification, for the sake 
of your poor mother! Would you not do more even than I ask to 
cast that sun-light of joy, which your reformation would produce, 
upon her declining years!’ — ‘My poor mother!’ he exclaimed, 
after a moment’s pause. ‘ O, William, I was wrong ; there is one 
who does not despise me. She has ever loved me ; and when my 
father has censured her, for not adopting towards me a course, as 
harsh as his own, her constant reply has been, He is my child ; 
he is my only child.” — O, my poor mother !’ he again exclaimed, 
‘ how much anguish I have caused her!’ — ‘How much happiness 
it is in your power to bestow !’ I rejoined, grasping his hand. We 
sat for a few moments in silence ; and while I uttered a silent and 
earnest prayer to God on his behalf, he bowed down his head like a 

▼oL. II. 24* 


282 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


bulrush, and the tears began to flow. I improved the occasion to 
the very best of my ability. Suffice it to say, that God crowned my 
labors with the most perfect success. That Sabbath evening, a 
temperance lecture was delivered in our village, and among those, 
whose names were enrolled with the members of the society, was 
George Morgan. 

“ No tongue can faithfully describe the happiness, which these 
tidings diffused in our two cottages. I must leave this matter to 
the hearer’s imagination, which I may do the more confidently, if 
he happen to have been, at some period of his existence, an intem- 
perate man, and, by his reformation, to have wiped the tears from 
the eyes of a broken-hearted mother. 

“ The Temperance Society in our village was, like all others in 
existence at that time, based upon the principle of abstinence from 
ardent spirit. The philosophy of temperance was, at that time, 
imperfectly understood, by the great mass of mankind. However 
obvious the fact, that the same means, which so notoriously pro- 
duced personal, domestic, and national drunkenness of old, will 
produce the same effect, at the present day, this consideration 
seemed, until of late, to be entirely overlooked. 

“ Eighteen months had passed away, since George Morgan be- 
came a member of the society ; and, during this period, his deport- 
ment had given entire satisfaction to his friends. He had resumed 
the lighter labors of the farm, and entirely gathered up his fallen 
respectability. He had long renewed his visits at our house. My 
sister Margaret had received him into favor, and it was finally settled 
that they were to be married. 

“ Their wedding-day came at last. The friends and connections 
of our families were invited of course. Old Dr. M’Phail was as 
merry as a grig, saving that, now and then, something would be 
sure to remind him of the ‘banks and braes,’ and almost force the 
tear into his eye. Parson Scroggs performed the marriage service'. 
AfUjr the ceremony was over, wine was handed to the company. 
When it was offered to George Morgan, he refused it. ‘ Why, 
Georgy, mon, na take a glass at your ain wedding?’ said the doc- 
tor. — ‘ I ’ve drank nothing stronger than water, doctor, for nearly 
two years,’ he replied, ‘ and I guess I better not.’ — ‘ Weel, weel,’ 
said the doctor, ‘ may be the chiel ’s unco right, though a glass at 
his ain wedding would na be sic a bad thing, to be sure.’ — ‘ Why, 
George,’ cried my sister, who was in remarkably fine spirits, ‘ not 
take a glass of wine with your bride !’ — ‘ There ’s high authority 
for wine at a wedding,’ said Parson Scroggs, as he drank oflf his 
glass. — ‘ Come, fie, George,’ said my sister, ‘ take a glass of wine 


MARGARET’S BRIDAL. 


283 


on your wedding-day, or the folks will think strange of it.’ — ‘Well, 
Margaret,’ said he, ‘ if you will have it so.’ Accordingly he took 
his glass. It may seem unaccountable to some of you, but his fate 
was sealed. From that moment he became a drunkard. That fatal 
glass reproduced his relish for strong drink, and plunged my poor 
sister into unutterable misery ; for she cannot to this hour be per- 
suaded that she was not the positive cause of his second fall. 

“ After the first glass, he took another and another, insisting, at 
last, upon drinking with every member of the company. He became 
thoroughly intoxicated. When reproved by Parson Scroggs for his 
intemperance, ‘ Bless your soul, parson,’ said he, ‘ there ’s high 
authority for wine at a wedding!’ From this moment his habits 
became worse than ever. When rebuked, he would often say, 
‘ You should not have given a wild beast, whom you had tamed, a 
fresh taste of blood.’ 

“ Poor George Morgan is no more. He has been dead r\ow more 
than two years. My sister’s health is shattered, and her mind is 
affected, by this domestic calamity. So much for wine at a wed- 
ding. Whenever I see it introduced, or hear it proposed, upon such 
occasions, I very naturally think of my sister Margaret’s bridal.” 

Mr. Egerton concluded his narrative. We were all solemnized 
by the simple recital. I looked to see what eflfect it had produced 
upon the Rev. Mr. M’Ninny : his head was resting on his arm, 
which was upon the tafferel of the steamboat — he was fast asleep. 

As we separated, the Kentuckian was earnestly employed in 
persuading Mr. Egerton to go to Boon’s Lick and relate the stcrv 
of Margaret’s bridal to Parson Roundy. 


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■ 


THE TEMPERANCE MEETING 

IN 

THE VILLAGE OF TATTERTOWN. 


The theory is ']u!te fascinating, that drunkenness may be removed from the earth, by the opera* 
lion of drunkards themselves; and, while contemplating this plausible y>ro;et, we are forciblj 
reminded of Professor Babbidge’s machine for the calculation of astronomical and nautical prob- 
lems, wh.ch prints off its own work and corrects its own errors. If drunkards, reformed, can be 
racved to persuade and reclaim their miserable fellows, as the tamed elephants of India are era- 
pitted to catch the wild_ ones, this is clearly a good thing. The drunkard is excited, and aroused, 
and reformed : he teslilies his gratitude, by seizing a drowning brother by the locks, and drawing 
him from the gulf. Another ana another are restored, — children to their parents, husbands to thei? 
wives. Gainin' numerical strength, these reclaimed inebriates band together in societies ; and, 
with the eyes of Argus and the hands of Briareus, they search out these lost and scattered sheep, 
and fold them in places of apparent security, which may be likened to great moral finding-houses, 
where, after years of profligacy and abandonment, neglected wives may seek their husbands, ana 
orphans may find their fathers. That arm, enervated by intemperance and sloth, is nerved once 
more, by temperance and the invigorating labors of the field or the workshop. If this were the end 
of it, — if this were the whole story, — how graceful, how celestial it would be I 
But there is another side to this picture ; upon this it is highly important for the Christian, the 

E atriot, the lover of order and of law, not less than for the friend of temperance, steadily to fix 
is eye. 

Among the prevailing follies is the idea of the omnipotence of moral suasion — its all-sufficiency 
for carrying forward this work of reform. The difficulty seems to arise from a total disregard of that 
broad distinction, which exists between the oppressed and the oppressor — between the poor, pitia 
ble tippler, and his cold-blooded and inflexible destroyer. It would seem, to many, rather oppress- 
ive, to make penal statutes for the punishment of individuals, who improvidently throw themselves 
in the way of those, whose profession it is to take their money, and possibly their lives ; is it there- 
fore just, that no laws should exist for the punishment of robbers and assassins? The absurdity of 
this notion is equally monstrous and palpable. Vanity is, very likely, at the bottom of it all. This 
new school of reformers professes to have found a golden road, unknown before. Availing of this 
false position, the rum-sellers here proposed a junction of their energies ; in other words, that the 
wolves and the sheep should walk lovingly together, with moral suasion for their common phylac- 
tery, and obtain from the legislature a repeal of all laws forbidding the traffic. Some judicious 
friends pointed out the fangs of these tender-hearted associates, and the wolves were baulked of their 

"'lYlhe cause of temperance be worth preserving, pure and undefiled, it is quite time for its old 
and faithful friends to reflect upon their obligations, and come to the rescue ; not in any spirit of 
opposition or hostility, but with the talents, experience, and weight of character, the influence of 
which is, at this moment, so essentially required as a regulating power. 


PART FIRST. 

“ Halloa ! — I say — Squire — Squire Periwig — halloa ! — 
back your topsail, will ye, till a body can get alongside.” — Upon 
this salutation, a little old man, in a gray coat, with large patte-pan 
buttons, leather breeches, and a cocked hat, supposed to be the last 
in this ancient commonwealth, stopped short in his progress over 
Tattertown common. Wheeling about, and resting both hands upon 
the top of his hickory staff, he awaited the approach of Captain 
Tarbox, who came down upon him at the rate of five knots an hour 
Few things, within the whole compass of comparable matters, 
could be more dissimilar in their personal appearance than the cap- 
tain and the squire. The former was about sixty years of age, of 


!^6 TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATIERTOWN. 

an uncommonly robust exterior, with a countenance full of hon horn- 
mie, and a temperament as zealous and straight-forward as a north- 
vvpster. The ocean wave had been the home of his adoption ever 
since he literally broke loose from school, and ran away from old 
master Bircher, preferring salt beef at sea to syntax on shore. 
Having been a shrewd, successful navigator, he returned at last to 
his native village ; and, with leisure and inclination to serve the pub- 
lic, he found no difficulty in obtaining the confidence of his fellow 
townsmen, and had been inducted into some of the most important 
offic3s, in the gift of the citizens of Tattertown. 

Squire Periwig was a man of some seventy winters. He had 
seen very little of that portion of the universe, which lay beyond the 
boundaries of Tattertown. His last visit to the metropolis of New 
England occurred about twelve months after the evacuation by the 
British troops, during the war of the revolution. He occasionally 
listened, with an expression of mingled amazement and incredulity, 
to the narratives of those, who professed to have travelled in steam- 
boats and upon railways, at the rate of twenty miles an hour. In 
truth, Tattertown was shut out from the rest of the world, not so 
effectually by its tall hills, which encompassed it on every side, as by 
its distance from the metropolis, and its deficiency in those objects ot 
commercial interest, which attract the speculator from afar. Squire 
Periwig’s views of men and things were not remarkably enlargea 
His features exhibited that puckerative and dried-apple expression, 
which is more peculiar to mummies than to men, and is perhap.s 
more common in Italian catacombs than in the ordinary walks ot 
life. He fancied himself to have a gift for public speaking. He 
was not particularly happy on such occasions, especially on account 
of a tortuous or vermicular motion of his lips. This was so pecul- 
iar, that young Rabbit, a journeyman carpenter in the village, im- 
pertinently remarked that Squire Periwig threw out his words just 
as his centre-bit threw out chips. 

Both these worthy men were highly esteemed by their fellow 
townsmen ; and, notwithstanding the captain’s popularity, he was 
not always certain of carrying his measures, when the squire put 
forth the very best of his energies in opposition. They continued, 
nevertheless, on excellent terms. A short-lived coolness was exhib- 
ited between them, when the captain presented the town with a full- 
length figure of Diana, being the figure-head of his old ship, with a 
request that it might be placed beneath the pulpit of the meeting 
house. Squire Periwig opposed the proposition in town-meeting 
Captain Tarbox replied in a speech of twenty minutes’ length ; but 
notwithstanding the numerous precedents which he referred to, iu 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 287 

foreign lands, the squire said it was a heathenish practice ; and 
Bellwether, the butcher, said he ’d as lieve see a ram’s head and 
horns stuck up there any day. The captain went off in a huff, and 
the town passed a vote of thanks, offering to put it up in the school- 
house, and then adjourned to receive the captain’s answer. During 
the succeeding night, the figure was stolen away, and probably 
buried, for nothing more was ever heard of it ; and the whole affair, 
which might otherwise have set the inhabitants by the ears, was 
ere long forgotten. 

“Good morning. Captain Tarbox,” said the squire. — “ A fair 
wind t’ ye, squire,” replied the captain ; “ I hailed ye to learn what 
success you ’ve met with about that temperance meeting.” — “ It ’ll 
be an expensive thing, captain, and I really don’t know where the 
money ’s to come from,” replied the squire. “ We ’ve made three 
trials already, and bad luck enough we ’ve had on ’t. All this ere 
philanthropy business must pay its own way, you know. Captain 
Tarbox ; folks are tolerably ready to come to the meetings, but 
they ’re awful afeard o’ the cost on ’em. The first time, you re- 
member how it was, we thought there was no need o’ going to the 
expense o’ lighting the meet ’n’ us ; so folks fetched their own can- 
dles and lanterns ; and, when they got fairly into their seats, and 
had looked about to see who was there, they begun to blow ’em 
out. Some folks, that was more delicate than the rest, said the 
smell on ’t was oncredible. Mr. Wheezer, the young lawyer 
that addressed us, told me it e’enabout did for him ; and he 
coughed so bad, that we did n’t git more than one word in five 
of all he said. Sartin all the light we got upon the subject come 
from the speaker, and it was a light shining in a pretty dark place, 
[ tell ye. 

“ Next time, you know, we voted to light up ; and, when I told 
’em as how they ’d have trouble about paying for so many candles, 
our minister thought my notions was altogether behind the times. 
He told me, the temperance cause was more popular than I thought 
for, and that we might safely rely upon a generous public. So we 
lighted up ; and old Mr. Greedy, the grocer, who looked in, a minute 
or so, but did n’t stay long, said it really brought on his old com- 
plaint, to see sich a tarnal waste o’ taller.” — “ His old complaint!” 
cried the captain; .“his old complaint against temperance meet- 
ings, you mean.” — “ No, I don’t,” replied Squire Periwig, rather 
peevishly; “ you are a leetle too apt to interrupt a body. Captain 
Tarbox, begging o’ your pardon ; I mean them cramps, for which he 
takes hot snakeroot. Well, we had an excellent discourse. It gin 
cidei • lift, but went dght agin sperrit. Well, when the Rev. Mr 


288 'raMPERAXCE MEETING IN TATTEETOWN. 

Moose sot down, it was agreed that Squire Tiger, the attorney, and 
f should collect. So he seized his hat and run out of his pew, the 
iTiinute the minister had gin the benediction. Some of the plaguy 
boys had hid mine, and so, as I saw the public a going, I e’en took 
off my wig. ‘ Stop — stop, my friends,’ cried Mr. Moose, rising in 
the pulpit, ‘ stop for the collection ;’ but that seemed to set ’em a 
going the faster. In spite of all we could do, the generous public 
was off afore we could go round, and, jest as I said, we had to make 
it up among ourselves. The cost o’ them candles was two dollars 
and eighty-seven cents and a half ; and every cent we collected was 
one dollar and thirty-two cents, and three potatoes, which an im- 
pudent sarpant dropped into my wig. I ’m for temperance. Captain 
Tarbox, in all things, and o’ course, in the consumption o’ valuable 
candles. 

“You know what a failure ’twas the third time. We was to 
have a gentleman from the city. Pertiklar pains was took to fix all 
right ; we writ him a letter, telling him we was poor ; could n’t 
afford to pay for a lecture ; but would pay his expenses out and 
home, by the cheapest route ; begged him to reply, not by mail, but 
by Squire Terrapin, who would come home from the legislature on 
Saturday, and save the postage. So he writ, and agreed to ’t. 
We expected he ’d been in the way o’ seeing things done smart, so 
we determined to light up handsome ; and, as the expense would be 
no trifle, Hopville and Pummicetown clubbed with us. I writ him 
word to come direct to my house ; and I wish’d I had n’t, for you 
never see such a silly lot o’ pies and custards and nobody knows 
what, as my wife fixed for the occasion. My darters got a hint 
that he was a bachelor ; and if they ’d been expecting General Wash- 
ington, they wouldn’t have used up half so much bergamot and 
essence o’ lemon. Jerusha had been down to the city and passed 
a week with her aunt Furnace, whose husband keeps the Wild 
Boar Tavern, in Puddle Alley. The day before the lecture, I saw 
her up in the rowen loft, a working away. Says I, ‘ Jerush, what 
are you at?’ — ‘Nothing, daddy,’ says she. — ‘You be,’ says I. 
So I goes up the ladder, and she was a stuffing lots o’ rowen into 
two great bags. She said they was to put under their pillows. So 
[ thought no more on ’t, till the arternoon o’ the very day, when in 
comes Jerush and Peggy, looking like all possessed. — ‘ What ye 
got there?’ says I. — ‘Nothing, daddy,’ said they. — ‘Nothing!’ 
says I. ‘ I never saw nothing look like that ;’ so I lays hold on ’t, as 
Jerush tried to run out o’ the room, and, ’twixt us both, away it 
comes; and, sure as you ’re alive. Captain Tarbox, that are identi- 
eol bag o’ rowen as she was a fixing up in the loft. So I told ’em. 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


288 


if they was cold, to put on warm, thick pettLoats, but re wen was 
scarce, and I would n’t have it wasted that way no how ; and I made 
’em carry it back, every mite on ’t. When Mrs. Periwig came in, 
I told her what I had done ; and she said the men better mind their 
own matters, and not interfere with the female department. She 
said Jerusha told her ’twas the fashion, and there was not a vir- 
tuous woman in the city that didn’t wear one. ‘Well,’ says I, 
‘ then I know why rowen ’s riz.’ The words were scarce spoken, 
afore I bear’d a violent knocking at the door. ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘ if 
he knocks like that, the pulpit cushion, which has jest been repaired, 
will stand no chance with him to-night ;’ for I hadn’t the slightest 
doubt but it was the lecturer, who had arrived. So I went to the 
door myself, and opened it very formally ; but, instead of the lec- 
turer, lo and behold, it was nobody but Vat, the foreman of Purdy, 
the brewer of Hopville. He said Mr. Purdy sent his compliments, 
and wished me to know that the friends of temperance, in their vil- 
lage, had learned that the lecturer, who had been invited, was one of 
the new sort, called teetotallers, and that he went right agin beer, 
and that they had decided to have nothing to do with him. Vat, 
v/ho saw I was very much disappointed, said he was dreadful sorry 
it happen’d so, but he made up all sorts of crooked faces to keep 
from laughing, and it was evident the villain was almost tickled to 
death. He had n’t been gone ten minutes afore a messenger comes 
from Pummicetown, pretty much of the same sort, stating, that the 
people there were in a real uproar ; and that they had unanimously 
resolved to hear nothing agin cider. They even went so far as to 
threaten tar and feathers, but finally settled down upon the more 
humane proposal of Bill Merryweather, — a droll fellow he was, — 
to catch the lecturer, and tie him in an empty barrel, and fill it up 
with cider as high as his nose, and compel him to save himself from 
ueing drowned, by drinking it down to the level. 

“ Upon hearing this I felt really scared for the poor man, and sent 
off a messenger to stop him on the way, and not only save him from 
harm, but ourselves from unnecessary expense. I tell you. Captain 
Tarbox, it ’s not the easy matter you suppose to get up a temper- 
ance meeting.” 

“Well, old boy,” cried the captain, thrusting both hands into tho 
capacious pockets of his shaggy pea jacket, “spun your yarn out, 
ey “ I have nothing more to say at present. Captain Tarbox,” 
replied the squire, rather nettled, apparently, by the captain’s 
familiar style. — “Well, then,” he rejoined, “pipe up your pa- 
tience, and hear what I ’ve got to say. You ’re a leetle behind 
the times. Why they don’t do the thing now as they used to, 

VOL. II. 26 


;890 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


The old fashion used to be this : they began with a prayer ; then 
they had a hymn ; then followed a dignified discourse, a regular 
three-decker ; then a hymn ; and the minister clapped on the night- 
cap with a benediction. That ’s the way they us’d to fix it. That ’s 
all done with. ’T would be just as odd to have such old-fashioned, 
musty proceedings now-a-days, as to ascend the Mississippi in a flat, 
pulling up by the bushes. So, upon the stage, they used to have 
their regular tragedies and comedies. That’s all gone by. They 
bring on their wild beasts, and trot ’em over the stage, now-a-days. 
I never saw people half so much pleased with Hamlet, or Macbeth, 
or Richard the Third, as with the simple exhibition ot a little, un- 
curried jackass, led on by an actor, in the character of Gil Bias, 
commencing his travels. The animal was a little refractory, and, 
by kicking out his legs and braying, he call’d forth peals of applause ; 
and, when the actor begged the audience to excuse the indiscre- 
tions of the young performer, as it was his first appearance on any 
stage, the shouts of rapturous acclamation were quite equal to any- 
thing, ever bestowed on Garrick or Talma. A jackass. Squire 
Periwig, yes sir, I repeat it, a jackass is just what is wanted, to 
make a temperance meeting go off” like a Baltimore clipper from her 
well greased ways.” — “Why, Captain Tarbox,” exclaimed the 
squire, “ are you in your sober senses ! Would you carry a real 
jackass into the sanctuary 1” — “ Squire,” cried the captain, “ you 
don’t understand the thing at all. It is so odd, so unexpected, so 
entirely contrary to the plainest rules of common sense, to have a 
real, live jackass in a church, that thousands would come for the 
very oddity of the thing; and then, friend Periwig, those, as Oliver 
Goldsmith says, who came to laugh, would remain, not to pray, to 
be sure, but for a more worthy purpose than to contemplate the 
jackass.” — “Never,” cried the squire, emphatically, with both 
hands planting his hickory upon the ground, “ never will I give my 
consent to suffer a jackass to be exhibited in our meet’n’us.” — 
“Didn’t suppose you would,” said the captain; “but I’ve no 
doubt, for all that, of the truth of what I say.” — “Besides,” 
Tejoined the squire, “ it would cost no less for candles.” — “ Give 
yourself no uneasiness about the candles,” said the captain- “ 1 
will put you at ease about the candles presently. The way they 
manage these matters now is to have one or more impressive 
addresses from grave and dignified gentlemen, and then a comic 
song or too, or something funny, in the way of mimickry or buf- 
foonery, between ; a sort of facetious interlude. The effect of this, 
as you see. Squire Periwig, is most excellent ; for, however impress- 
ive and solemnizing the addresses of the grave speakers may be. 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


291 


the audience is speedily relieved from all such unnecessary solem- 
nity, by this happy contrivance.” — “Pray, Captain Tarbox,” said 
the squire, “ if we must have a temperance address, wouldn’t it be 
the cheapest way to invite our minister, Mr. Moose!” — “Never 
do,” said the captain, with great confidence, “ never do, sir; Mr. 
Moose is a good temperance man, of the old school ; a sound, logical 
reason er; has a great deal to say upon the subject ; and his appeals 
to the feelings are irresistible. But there is not one particle of 
grimace or buffoonery about him. You want a comical fellow, but 
the best man for you is a real funny minister, one, wh© is so devoted 
to the cause of temperance, that he is willing, for its sake, to sacri- 
fice a portion of his clerical dignity. The same reason which 
induces the people to flock after a jackass, exhibited in a church, or 
even on the stage, operates, in some degree, upon those, who collect 
to hear a clergyman crack temperance jokes in a pulpit.” — “ Well, 
captain,” said the squire, “you seem to have thought more upon 
this subject than I supposed you had, and I should be quite willing, 
for one, to leave the matter to your management, if you could satisfy 
me that we — that we should not be obliged to — to — ” — “ Yes,” 
cried the captain, “I understand you, — that you should not be 
obliged to pay too much for the candles. Well, that shall be 
settled ; fifteen or twenty dollars will probably cover the whole 
expenses. Your worthy old neighbor, the widow Seely, whose son 
has signed the total-abstinence pledge, and reformed entirely, says 
she will pay half the expense most cheerfully, but not more cheer- 
fully than I will pay the other.” — “That’s very handsome. Cap- 
tain Tarbox,” said the squire ; “ and whom do you propose to have 
as a lecturer!” — “ The Rev. Mr. Crackaway, above all others, if 
i can get him,” replied the captain. — “Isn’t he one o’ them 
teetotallers. Captain Tarbox!” — “ To be sure,” replied the captain. 
“ I don't want a fellow to caulk half my ship, and leave the other 
open.” — “Well ” said the squire, “I’m afeard there isn’t one 
of oui sele3tmen that ’ll go to hear him, and I know a number that 
won’t ; but, if you and the widow Seely ’s going to pay for ’t, why, 
for all I see, it’s your own consarn, and you’ve a right to fix it 
pretty much your own way.” — “Why, Squire Periwig,” replied 
the captain, “ the widow told me, yesterday, that her son Eli, that ’s 
reformed, you know, was for years the most powerful talker against 
the distillers, and all sorts of ardent spirit, that she ever heard, and 
never so much so, as when he was just about half drunk on beer and 
cider.” — “ Well, well,” said the squire, “I don’t know but the 
widow ’s half right. She ’s an amazing smart one. When will 
you have the meeting!” — “ Next Friday,” said the captain, “the 


292 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


fifth of November, the anniversary of the gunpowdei plot ; and yon 
shall see if we don’t blow the demijohns sky high, my old boy.” — 
“ Captain Tarbox,” said the squire, “I really wish you would leave 
off them words, when speaking to me.” — “Well, squire, I will, 
but I’m so pleased to see you come into the plan so readily, that I 
forgot myself — no offence, squire. Do send your folks round with 
notices in all directions. I ’ll get some printed in the city, and 
we ’ll post ’em up. Tell Jerusha to let the women know it, all 
round, and if she will, she shall have a bustle as big as a chancel- 
lor’s woolsack, and I’ll find the rowen.” — “ Pshaw, captain, don’t 
mention that,” said the squire. “ I ’ll tell o’ the meeting, and my 
folks shall go round. Good day, captain. — By the way, Captain 
Tarbox, I ’m thinking you can light up respectable with three 
pounds o’ candles.” — “ Don’t trouble your head about the candles,” 
said the captain ; “ that ’s our affair. Good day t’ ye. Squire Peri- 
wig.” 

Captain Tarbox left no stone unturned to accomplish his worthy 
object, and ensure a large congregation. He rode and ran in all 
directions, and caused a drag committee to be organized, for the 
purpose of bringing to the meeting the aged and infirm, the lame 
and the lazy, even from beyond the boundaries of Tattertown ; and 
his emissaries spread the news in all the neighboring villages. A 
very foolish report became current, for a time, that some extraordi- 
nary performances would be exhibited in the meeting-house. It 
was even confidently asserted, that the old widow Seely would 
address the assembly from the pulpit ; that Captain Tarbox would 
perform, in the broad aisle, a dance, which he had seen exhibited by 
the New Zealanders ; and that Squire Periwig would conclude the 
evening’s entertainment wdth a comic song. These weak inven- 
tions of the enemy were not ineffectual. They certainly disturbed 
the equanimity of the squire, who took the trouble to visit almost 
every house in the village, for the purpose of contradicting the 
wicked rumors. The Rev. Mr. Moose, though he gave no credit 
to the report, was well aware that Captain Tarbox was rather a 
bold practitioner ; he therefore wrote him a respectful note, express- 
ing a hope, that nothing would be done, unbecoming the occasion 
or the place of meeting. Captain Tarbox immediately waited on 
the minister in person, and gave him such assurances as set him 
perfectly at ease. 

The eventful Friday at length arrived, and the success of the cap- 
tain’s exertions was amply demonstrated, in the complete occupa- 
tion of every seat in the meeting-house. The well-known charac- 
ters and countenances of many, who had assembled, tliat evening, 


temperance meetino in tattertown. 


293 


plainly proved, that they had come less to give a patient hearing to 
such arguments as might be advanced, in favor of temperance, than 
to be tickled and refreshed, by the drollery of the Rev. Mr. Cracka^ 
way. 

When a congregation has fairly collected, and all who may rea- 
sonably be expected to arrive, have been installed for a few minutes 
in their pews, the passage of time seems immeasurably slow, before 
the services begin. Such certainly was the case, upon the present 
occfision. The Rev. Mr. Moose had drawn forth his faithful, old, 
silver time-keeper, again and again. Half an hour had already 
passed away, when a sudden noise in the porch seemed to announce 
the arrival of the Rev. Mr. Crackaway. All heads were imine 
diately turned towards the door. It opened — and the two Miss 
Periwigs marched up the broad aisle, so singularly caparisoned, as to 
leave no doubt upon the minds of Captain Tarbox and the squire, 
who were in the secret, that these perverse young women had taken 
advantage of their father’s absence, to help themselves to rowen. 
F our young men took their places on the pulpit stairs, relinquishing 
their seats, which were barely sufficient, for the accommodation of 
the two Miss Periwigs. All was again reduced to silence, speedilj 
interrupted, however, by a sudden outcry in the very centre of the 
church ; a round board, whose circumference had been perforated 
with a number of holes for the occasion, each containing a tallow 
candle, had been ingeniously suspended, under the direction of 
Captain Tarbox, to the ceiling of the meeting-house, by four small 
cords uniting in one. Most unhappily, however, the flame of one 
of the candles had come in contact with the cord, and burnt it 
entirely off. The circular board consequently inclined suddenly to 
one side, and three of the candles fell directly on the squire’s wig, 
who sat at the head of his pew. The wig was immediately on 
fire ; and serious mischief might have ensued, but for the prompt 
exertions of Captain Tarbox, who instantly snatched it from the 
squire’s head, and stamped upon it, in the broad aisle, until the 
flames were extinguished. It is true, though almost incredible, 
that some persons present conceived this unhappy accident to have 
been prearranged, and the captain’s efforts in the aisle, in extin- 
guishing the fire, to be the commencement of the New Zealand 
dance. It was so generally received an opinion, that antics of 
some sort were indispensable to sustain the faltering interest of the 
public, in the temperance reform. 

This unfortunate accident -w as speedily repaired, so far as the 
burnt cordage was concerned. Three new candles were substituted 
for those, which had been completely demolished in their fall. The 

VOL. II. 35 * 


294 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTEKTOWN. 


captain seemed perfectly at home ; and standing on the pew rail , as 
if upon the yard-arm of the Diana, he spliced the rigging with in- 
conceivable facility. The squire clapped on the balance of his 
periwig, and matters soon settled into their original condition. 

The impatience of the assembly, ere long, began to manifest 
itself, in the restless movement of its component parts. The squire 
looked round with increasing anxiety, upon the waning candles ; 
and, after going, three or four times, to the door of the church, 
and listening in vain for the sound of wheels. Captain Tnrbox was 
obliged, at last, to ascend the pulpit stairs, and announce to the 
minister his belief, that the speaker, whom they expected had 
failed to keep his appointment. 

After a confabulation, which lasted four or five minutes, Parson 
Moose rose in his pulpit, to the great consternation of some of the 
congregation, who had serious fears that he was about to substitute 
a sermon for the temperance address ; and, in anticipation of such a 
catastrophe, not a few had already seized their hats, and opened 
their pew doors. Parson Moose, who perfectly understood the 
nature of this graceless demonstration, and who was not without a 
spice of dry humor, instantly exclaimed, “ Stop, my friends, one 
moment, if you please ; it is not intended to detain you against 
your wishes. The Rev. Mr. Crackaway, who was expected here 
to address you, has not arrived. It is so much after the appointed 
time, that I fear he will not. What is it your pleasure to do 1 
Shall we return to our own homes, or will you propose some plan 
for passing the evening profitably here ?” 

There followed a pause of some length, when Squire Periwig 
rose, bowed to the Rev. Mr. Moose, and planted both hands on the 
top of his hickory staff, a never-failing indication, in every town 
meeting, for thirty years, that he intended to speak. “ Reverend 
sir,” said the squire, “ a deal o’ pains has been taken to collect this 
congregation together, and considerable expense. This meet’n’us 
was never lit up so afore, since it was built. I was at the raisin, 
jest forty-three years ago. If we should break up w*ithout making 
a profit o’ this occasion, and leave these here candles all lit up for 
nothing, I should say it was a burning shame.” The squire, 
having uttered these words, suddenly resumed his seat, and very 
unexpectedly to those, who were accustomed to the prolix manner, 
m which he commonly exhibited his oratorical powers. It was sut 
mised by some, that a consciousness, that his wig was half burnt 
off, had shortened his harangue. 

He had no sooner resumed his seat, than Captain Tarbox aio^e. 
‘ Parson Moose,” he exclaimed, in a strong sea voice, “ 1 am 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTKRTOWN. 


295 


entirely of Squire Periwig’s opinion. As I have had something to 
do in getting up this meeting, I should be greatly mortified if our 
friends should be obliged to dispeise, without any amusement what- 
ever. The Rev. Mr. Crackaway has disappointed us. Had he 
kept his promise, we should have had fun enough. From what I 
have heard of him, I don’t know that such an old craft as this meet- 
ing-house would have kept its timbers together. But there is no 
occasion for despair. I am told there is a gentleman here, who is 
willing to go up in the pulpit, and hit off a real drunkard, so that 
you would n’t know the difference. I have also been informed, tl at 
Appleton, the blind fiddler, is, at this moment, fortunately here ; and 
Mr. Boogler has expressed a willingness to give us Old King Cole.” 
This announcement was received by a large portion of the assembly, 
with a murmur of approbation ; and Appleton, encouraged by what 
he heard, had drawn his fiddle from its case, and was already screw- 
ing up the strings, and putting it in tune. “Heaven forbid!” 
exclaimed the venerable clergyman, with a countenance full of pain- 
ful solemnity ; — “ Heaven forbid, that 1 should live to witness such 
a desecration of this holy place. Shall we convert God’s holy 
temple into a play-house! A drunkard, or the representative of a 
drunkard, in my pulpit ! Shall these consecrated walls, in which I 
have officiated for more than forty years, resound with the notes 
of profane ribaldry, or with any other than such as are poured forth 
for the glory of God ! Can it be possible, my friends, that the 
exhibition of a drunkard, as an object of ridicule, entitled as he is to 
our deepest commiseration and regard, should be accounted a legit- 
imate part of that machinery, by which this high and holy enter- 
prise is to be advanced ! Is this righteous cause, whose earliest 
recollections are associated in our minds with some of the greatest 
names our country has produced, — Dexter, and Dane, and Wards- 
worth, and Worcester, — fallen so very low, as to require, for its 
support, these artificial aids from stage-players and buflbons ! If so, 
it will ere long sink into contempt and oblivion.” 

This strong and entirely unexpected appeal was irresistible. Mora 
'han a dozen of the graver members of the society were at once upon 
their feet, their countenances expressive of entire approbation of 
Parson Moose’s sentiments. — “ Reverend sir,” cried Squire Peri- 
wig, striking the end of his hickory violently on the floor, “ I am 
agin singing King Cole in this meet’n’us; and I must say, sir — 
yes sir, I must — with all my respect for Captain Tarbox, I was 
sorry to hear him call this venerable meet’n’us, by such a disrespect- 
ful name as a craft.” — “ Reverend sir,” said a tall, slender person- 
age, with a pale but expressive countenance, — and all eyes were 


896 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. • 


turned upon the village schoolmaster, old Mr. Merlin, — “ Reverend 
sir, with your leave, I will propose, as a substitute for the lecture, 
which it seems we are not to have, that some of us, who have any 
details in our possession, connected with this interesting subject, and 
whose recital may be profitable to this assembly, should be invited 
to relate them. Squire Periwig, who was born in this village, and 
has resided here so many years, cannot fail to recollect some inter- 
esting passages, which are well worth the recital. Captain Tarbox, 
I should presume, can give us some incidents, which have occurred 
under his observation, at sea and in foreign lands. And you, sir, 
yourself, I trust, will contribute to our useful entertainment, in a 
similar manner.” 

The people, so called, in the hands of an ingenious operator, are 
very much like clay in the hands of ’he potter. This assembly, so 
ready, but a moment before, to approve -the -preposterous proposal 
of Captain Tarbox, were now equally in favor of Mr. Merlin’s sug- 
gestion. 

“ I have nothing to say agin Mr. Merlin’s plan,” said the squire. 
“I’m not much of a story-teller ; but, if he ’ll lead off, I ’ll follow 
as well as I am able.” 

“ I have no objection. Reverend sir,” said Mr. Merlin ; “ and, as 
we have lost some time in preliminaries already, I will consume no 
more. I have often been disposed to trace back the effect of intem- 
perance to its remote causes ; and I have been occasionally as much 
surprised to find the original source precisely where it was, as was 
the traveller Bruce, to discover, in two small fountains in Abyssinia, 
the sources of the Nile. Drunkenness is defined a disturbance of 
the functions of the brain and nerves, by the use of alcohol. Many 
other stimulants will produce the same effect. Anger is a species 
of drunkenness or intoxication, and every passion, unduly gratified, 
presents a somewhat similar result. In all these cases, the func- 
tions of the brain and nerves are disturbed. He, that striveth for 
the mastery, should be temperate in all things. I have been a 
school-master for many years ; and of those boys who have become 
drunkards, at some period of their lives, I have found very few, 
who had not been devoted, with more than common ardor, to the 
gratification of some particular passion. The absence of drunken- 
ness, among the Quakers, is not so directly the result of their con- 
ventional interdiction of the use of spirit, as of that soothing quietism, 
that characteristic calm, which pervades them as a class, and won- 
derfully enables them to keep their wholesome resolutions. The 
habit of excitement is a continuing inward fire, which requires fuel 
of some sort. The brain and nerves, long and habitually excited by 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


297 


«ome cause, tliough in itself originally painful, seem, for a lime, not 
less disturbed by a removal of the cause ; and, if it be no longer in 
force, they solicit the application of some other exciting principle m 
power. A contemplation of this fact plainly exhibits the absurdity 
of expecting a drunkard’s reformation, upon his pledge to abstain 
from distilled spirit, however faithfully observed, if he be permitted 
to resort to cider or other inebriants. 

“ When I was a young man, I ” at this moment the atten- 

tion of the company was attracted, to Squire Periwig, who had risen 
from his seat, and stood pointing his hickory stick at an angle of 
forty-five ; the speaker observed this incident and paused : — “I’m 
sorry to interrupt,” said the squire, “but there’s a great thief in 
two o’ them candles, and the taller ’s swealing away like nothing.” 
The squire’s solicitude about the candles was appeased by the sex- 
ton, and Mr. Merlin proceeded. “ When I was a young man, I 
kept a school in the village of Gooseberry. Everybody has rambled 
as far as the pretty village of Gooseberry. In this village dwelt 
Squire Mushroom, who was supposed to own all the factories and 
two thirds of the bank. His word was law among the men ; Mrs. 
Mushroom’s, among the women ; and master Aminadab’s among 
the children, from one end of Gooseberry to the other. Aminadab, 
or, as he was commonly called, Minny, for convenience, or perhaps 
on account of his small stature, was a fiery little fellow, with carroty 
hair, high and spreading cheek-bones, an uncommonly sharp nose 
and chin, and two sharp small eyes as black as coals. As his nose 
was always red, from his cradle, his eyes and nose together resem- 
bled two agates and a ruby, in a mourning ring. The sum total of 
his appearance was as near to that of a large fox, as one thing could 
be to another. He employed a considerable portion of his time in 
setting his dog, Snarl, on the horses, sheep, fowls, and children, 
who came in sight of his father’s premises. It was a great source 
of delight to Minny, if he could, by letting down the bars after dark, 
entice all the cows in the neighborhood into Daddy Grumble’s barley- 
field. Whatever wanton act of mischief was done, the good people 
of Gooseberry always attributed it to Aminadab Mushroom, or, as 
he was termed on such occasions, ‘ that red devil's bird, Minny 
Mush.’ It was not safe to resent these trespasses, which Minny 
committed. Upon one occasion, farmer Trott had every long hair 
in his nag’s tail pulled out by Minny, to make snares for blue jays. 
This made the farmer very angry, as he had just been made a 
colonel, and the nag was good for nothing on ihe parade, without 
the tail. In the first moment of anger, he seized Minny, and ducked 
him in a tanpit, and flogged him into the bargain Minny ran home 


298 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


yelling that he'd have his revenge. Next morning ihe fanner’s 
green melons were all cut off the vines ; and Squire Mushroom 
bought the farm, and turned Trott off, at the shortest notice. 

“ Moses Meadows, the son of an honest farmer, was the particu- 
lar object of Minny’s hatred. He hated him in general, because he 
was the best boy in master Thwackum’s school ; and he hated him 
in particular, because, when the master inquired who broke his 
hour-glass, and little Tom Tibbs was about to be whipped for it, 
upon the evidence of Minny, Moses rose, and, before the whole 
school, stated that he was looking in at the window, before school, 
on the day when Minny had had his ears boxed, and that he heard 
him say he would have his revenge; and at the same time, he 
knocked down the hour-glass with the poker. Upon this, Minny 
had a terrible whipping ; and, after school, he told Moses he 'd have 
his revenge. In the morning of that day, Moses fed his three white 
rabbits. Next morning, they were found dead. In such terror was 
Minny held in the village, that Goody Cringe offered him half her 
pears, if he would not take the whole. Farmer Meadows charged 
him with killing Moses’ rabbits, upon which Minny told the farmer 
he lied, who jumped over the wall, and birched the young dog 
handsomely, who clinched his little fist, and screamed loud enough 
to split his lungs, that he'd have his revenge. The squire came in a 
great, red rage, to call the farmer to account. Farmer Meadows 
was a member of the society of Friends, and perfectly independent 
in his circumstances. The dialogue between them was very de- 
scriptive of their respective characters. ‘ You are a Quaker rascal,’ 
said the squire. ‘ Nay, friend Mushroom, thee is not in thy right 
mind.’ ‘ I have a great mind to come over the wall and thrash you, 
you old rascal,’ said the squire. ‘ Nay, friend Mushroom, I think 
thy great mind will not mislead thee so far,’ said the farmer. ‘ You 
are an impudent fellow,’ replied the squire. ‘ Nay, friend,’ said the 
‘armer, ‘ thee is no judge.’ ‘ You shall hear from me again,’ said 
■he squire, clapping spurs to his horse, and shaking his whip in the 
dir. ‘ Fare thee well, friend Mushroom,’ said farmer Meadows, as 
the squire rode away. While this colloquy was going on, in front 
of the house, Minny had fastened a cord to the leg of the bench, 
that supported the farmer’s beehives, and tied the other end to old 
Dobbin’s collar, who had been harnessed for the plough, which was 
down in the field. After the squire had gone, the farmer took 
Dobbin’s bridle to lead him off, when, at the first step, down came 
all the hives, and, in an instant, the air was filled with an irritated 
little host, who fastened on poor old Dobbin, and literally stung him 
to death The poor farmer himself was also severely injured. No 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 299 

one doubted that Minny was the author of this cruel deed. When 
Moses met him the next day, he said to him, ‘ Thee has had thy 
revenge, Minny, and the Lord, as I think, will one day give me 
mine.’ Minny let no opportunity escape of offering injury and insuh 
to Moses and his father. This revengeful, wicked temper grew 
with his years. And, as he became a man, the ill turns, which he 
rendered this worthy family, were more serious in their consequences. 
His riches naturally gained him followers, who flattered him, by 
taking up his prejudices. He bought an adjoining estate, for the 
avowed purpose of getting into a lawsuit with Moses, about boun- 
dary lines. He bought an hundred things, at auctions, which he 
did not want, for no other reason than the desire of disappointing 
Moses. One day he purposely ran foul of Moses’ wagon, and 
performing the part of the wolf, in the fable, he began, with profane 
oaths, to accuse Moses as the aggressor ; and, at length, confiding 
in his peaceful temper and principles, he seized Moses by the collar, 
and began to lay his whip over his shoulders. Moses, taking hold 
of his arms, held him with great ease ; and, as he still struggled 
and attempted to kick and bite, he said to him, ‘ Aminadab Mush 
room, as far as possible I have desired to live peaceably with thee. 
I will neither strike thee, nor will I bite thee, nor despitefully use 
thee, for it is forbidden ; but I will bind thee to keep the peace ;’ 
so saying, he drew from his pocket a new clothes-line, which he had 
been buying, and tied him to a tree, with an adroitness, which 
astonished the bystanders, who laughed heartily to hear Minny rave 
and scream, that he 'd have his revenge. Moses repaired to a magis- 
trate, who despatched a constable to untie Minny, and he was bound 
over in gi>od earnest to keep the peace. During the process of 
tying him to the tree, Minny called loudly and confidently for aid, 
upon two or three of his associates, who only stood and laughed at 
him. He was greatly enraged at their ingratitude, for which he 
could not account. IVIinny, it seems, was in no business, but entirely 
dependent on his father ; who was himself entirely dependent, and 
had been for a long time, upon the popular delusion in regard to the 
bank. The bystanders, who had seen Minny tied, would probably 
have interposed in his favor, had they not heard a report, which had 
not reached Minny’s ears, respecting his father. In truth, the bank 
had been created to feed the factory ; and the factory proved too 
voracious for the bank to supply its never-ceasing demands. They 
failed together, and the squire’s horse proved a good galloper, and 
ran away, as fast as his legs could carry him ; this would have been 
a matter of little consequence, had not the squire, with all the spare 
cash, been mounted on his back. Minny came down, after nis 


500 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


father, as a bob comes down, after a kite, when it falls. His prop- 
erty was stripped from him, by his unrelenting creditors, by piece- 
meal, much in the same manner, in which it is taken from a poor 
mariner’s back, who has the misfortune to be cast upon the shores 
of merciless barbarians. Minny’s old friends and companions were 
among the first and the most furious. They took his farms, and 
cattle, and wagons, and even his furniture. Minny had now liter- 
ally no resource upon earth, and he had never thought of any m 
heaven. He had neither philosophy nor religion. He now, for the 
first time in his life, began to suspect that this world was not made 
for Minny, whatever it might have been for Cajsar. He had been 
married more than four years, to a very worthy young woman, and 
they had three as pretty children as any in Gooseberry. Their 
mother had done her utmost to bring them up in the fear of the 
Lord ; and, to do Minny justice, he had the greatest respect for his 
wife. She was mild and discreet ; and knew, as well as any woman 
breathing, how to put in her good words in season. Whenever he 
came in, with a tempest on his brow, she contracted her sails before 
its fury, like the little nautilus. And when he swmre he ’d have his 
revenge, she said not a word. But she reasoned with him, when 
he was calmer, and often prevailed with him to relinquish his unjust 
and violent purposes. She had, in a great measure, persuaded him 
of the folly and injustice of cherishing unchristian feelings to the 
Meadows family. ‘ Only think,’ said she, ‘ how differently they 
have conducted to you, Aminadab. I saw Moses Meadows, with my 
own eyes, pick up every one of the pears, that fell from our tree into 
his lot, and lay them carefully on our side. And, notwithstanding 
the sad turn you did him about his bees, when you was a boy, yet, 
when yours swarmed on his trees, he hived them, and put them, 
hive and all, over on our side. I. should not show my regard for 
you, Aminadab, by joining in your talk, against so worthy a man as 
Moses Meadows.’ ‘Well, wife,’ he would reply, ‘ you ’ve preached 
a good sermon, and I don’t doubt you ’re half right ; but let ’s have 
some tea.’ 

“But now these poor people were stripped of all their posses- 
sions, and reduced to great distress. Martha, Aminadab’s wife, bore 
it with great fortitude ; she was up, early and late, and everybody 
saw that her little children were never ragged, thought their coats 
and breeches were, like Joseph’s, of many colors, and covered wdth 
patches As for little Minny, their youngest boy, the more his 
clothes were like those of a little merry Andrew, the happier he 
»eemed to be; and, one day, having picked up a piece of yellow 
cloth, cut in the shape of a star, before the door of Mr. Cabbage 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 301 

the tailor ; he cried a full hour, by the Gooseberry clock, because 
his mother refused to sew it on his breeches behind. The children 
of Moses Meadows went to the same town-school with these poor 
little fellows. One day, in February, there came a terrible thaw, 
and while Martha was wondering how the little things could get 
home, she looked out of the window, and saw Moses Meadows 
three stout boys, each with one of her children ‘ a-pig-back.’ She 
begged them to come in, and rest themselves, upon which they 
(Cried ‘ Nay,’ and ran home again. 

“At first, Arainadab bore his misfortunes like a fool and an infi- 
del. He even showed some disposition to drown his sorrows in the 
drunkard’s cup. One evening he came home late, with a bottle of 
rum under his coat ; and as he crept slyly into the house, he heard 
Martha talking, and, peeping through the crack of the door, he per- 
ceived that she was kneeling beside the bed, in which his three 
children were sound asleep ; he saw the tears run down her cheeks, 
and the first words he caught were these : ‘ Wherever he may be, 
give thy angels charge -over him ; deliver him from evil doers ; save 
him from destruction ; guard him, 0 God, from that sin, which most 
easily besets him. Thou, who art the father of the fatherless, and 
the widow’s God, save thy handmaid and these unhappy babes from 
misfortune, greater even than that of the widow and the orphan, 
who have followed a worthy husband and father to the grave ; save 
us. Almighty God, from domestic disgrace. Teach my poor hus- 
band to bow to thy chastisement. Spare us, O Lord ; may these 
poor children never behold a drunkard in their father.’ — The tears 
gushed more freely from her eyes ; and Aminadab, who, as we have 
said, most truly loved and respected his wife, rushed out of the 
house, and taking the neck of the bottle in both hands, he broke it 
on the horse-block, with the greatest violence, at the same moment 
crying ‘ Amen,’ while the tears filled his eyes. He then returned 
into the house, where he was kindly received by Martha. Next 
morning, to her great surprise, he rose unusually early ; and, after 
an hour’s absence, he returned, and told her, that he had engaged 
himself to Mr. Staple, the shopkeeper, to take charge of his store. 
Sh(i could scarcely credit the intelligence. It was even so ; and in 
a week he entere(l on his new employment, to the astonishment of 
ad Gooseberry. The clergyman came shortly after to their c( ttage, 
and Aminadab frankly related, for the first time, to his wife and 
I’arson Bell, the circumstances we have described ; and added, 

‘ Your prayers are the longest, Parson Bell, I ever heard, but our 
Martha’s prayer I never shall forget, to my dying day.’ 

“ Shortly after. Gripe, the hriker, having obtained a judgment 

VOL. ir. 26 


302 " TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 

against Aminaclab, took out his execution, and committed him tc 
prison. This produced for poor Martha, what poverty couJd not. 
She bore aJl else ; by this she was overthrown. She fell sick of a 
fever. When Minny came to school, little Moses Meadow's, observ- 
ing that he cried bitterly, asked him the reason ; and learned that 
his father was in jail, and his mother sick in bed. Moses told his 
father at noon. ‘ Does thee not think, father,’ said little Moses, 

‘ that broker Gripe lacketh bowels?’ ‘ Yea,’ said friend Meadow's, 

‘ go thee out and saddle the gray mare. Neighbor Mushroom hath 
b3<m tried in the fire, and verily I thought he would be found want- 
ing. But be hath been steady, from the second to this tenth month, 
in friend Staple’s store. Verily Mosy is right, and Gripe lacketh 
bowels.’ He got on the gray mare, and, in a quarter of an hour, he 
hitched the bridle at the prison gate. ‘ Is Aminadab Mushroom in 
thy^jail?’ said he to Beeswax, the keeper ; and, being told that he 
was, he asked for the amount of the execution ; and being asked by 
Beeswax, if he thought it would ever be paid, ‘ Yea,’ he replied, 
‘ thee shalt have thy money, friend Beeswax, at my house, when 
thee pleasest. Wilt thee trust to my saying, and bring forth Amin- 
adab?’ The word of Meadows was better than many bonds. 
Aminadab could scarcely believe, ihat^he was freed by Moses Mead- 
ows. He could not restrain his tears. ‘ I do not deserve this at 
your hands,’ said he. ‘ Nay,’ replied friend Meadows, ‘ thee doest 
not, on old scores. But thee art another than thee wast. Verily, 
the grace of God, as I think, workeih in thee. Friend Aminadab, 
it hath pleased Heaven to add greatly to my basket and my store, 
beyond my deserts, and to take from thee the little that thee hadst. 
I have bought thy little farm back for thee ; it is thine ow'n. Thy 
children and my children shall grow up together, and brotherly love 
shall continue.’ ‘Ah,’ said Aminadab, ‘now I understand the 
meaning of your w'ords, when we were boys, “ TAce has had thy 
revenge^ Minny, and the Lord, as I think, will one day give me 
mine.”’ ‘ Yea, verily,’ said Moses, and they walked home the 
very best friends in all Gooseberry ” 

A murmur of applause arose as Mr. Merlin resumed his seat, 
slightly interrupted by a loud whisper, from Mr. Killem, the tavern- 
keeper, sufficiently audible to the occupants of the nearest pews , 
he observed, with a sneer, that the story might be well enough 
for Mr. Merlin’s scholars of twelve years old; and Captain Tar- 
box replied, loud enough to be heard by the whole congregation, 
that, perhaps, we might be favored, before we separated, with a 
story better adapted to Mr. Killem’s age and occupation. “ Order, 
my friends,” said the B,ev. Mr. Moose ; “I believe we are now 
entitled to a story from Squire Periwie.” 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


303 


I don’t reckon,” said the squire, as he rose, “upon being' very 
entertaining, but I ’ll do the best I can, in my old-fashioned way. 
I ’ve lived in this town, man and boy, seventy-three years, come the 
seventeenth day of next June. I ’ve seen lots o’ drunkards, in this 
ere village, born, bred, and buried here, right in the midst of us; 
likely young men too, a great many of ’em; cut down, not by the 
hand of time, but by this awful destroying angel, or devil, or what- 
ever it is ; this rage for liquor. I ’ve seen em put into the ground 
with their brown hair, and every tooth in their heads — some of ’em 
so very young, that they were never shaved in their lives, unless it 
was by the men they got the rum of. I ’ve seen mothers, and wid- 
ders, and darters, shed more tears than would fill all the empty rum 
hogsheads, that ever came full into Tattertown. Neighbor Killem 
could tell ye ten times more about this than I can.” — “Pray, 
Squire Periwig,” cried the tavern-keeper, jumping up in a passion, 
“ what right have you to drag me before this meeting, without 
my consent?” — “Bless your heart, neighbor,” said the squire, 
“ what ’s the matter? If I ’ve said anything out of the way, I.’m 
very sorry for it. You and I have been neighbors for forty years. 
You know well enough, neighbor, that I am a tanner ; now, if you 
had undertaken to tell a story about the number of hides that have 
been tanned in this village, for a certain number of years, and had 
thought proper to say to the assembly, that Squire Periwig could tell 
them a great deal more about the matter than you could, I don’t 
think it would have put me in a passion. If I had ever heard you 
say, that you was ashamed of your trade, I would n’t have hurt 
your feelings, neighbor, for the world ; but, on the contrary, I ’ve 
heard you say, a hundred times, that it was a highly honorable call 
ing, and quite agreeable to Scripture. I ’ve heard you say, that the 
law required commissions to Justices of the Peace and licenses to 
rum-sellers, to be given, as marks of distinction, to men of sober 
lives and conversations, and that you considered your profession as 
honorable as any in the village.” 

There was something so perfectly overwhelming, in this unex- 
pected, and possibly unintended, onset of Squire Periwig, that the con- 
gregati )n was, for one or two minutes, convulsed with laughter. Mr. 
Killem had seized his hat, and half risen to depart ; but his better half 
twitched him by the coat, and whispered something in his ear, of 
which nothing but the words, “ sovereign contempt,” and “ beneath 
your notice,” was heard by the persons occupying the pew in rear. 
He threw his hat upon the floor of the pew, and folding his arms, 
looked round upon the assembly with a countenance full of indigna- 
tion and wrath ; a ferocious grin, as the speaker proceeded, alter- 


304 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


nating with an expression as “ black as midnight without moon 
somewhat resembling the sudden changes, when heat lightning ia 
flashing forth amid the deep gloom of an autumnal sky. 

The heart is deceitful above measure. Squire Periwig had never 
been accounted among the most ardent friends of temperance, until 
that moment. He mistook the high satisfaction he received, from a 
consciousness of having been able to produce the effect he had just 
witnessed in the assembly, for zeal and devotion to the cause. He 
saw clearly, that he had mortally offended his neighbor Killem ; he 
knew the unforgiving nature of his disposition; and he rightly consid- 
ered it a legitimate occasion for making a virtue of necessity. The 
independent condition of his circumstances placed him beyond the 
reach of those mischievous appliances, of which Mr. Killem knew 
well enough how to avail himself, against those, who attempted 
to thwart his wishes, or interfere with his professional operations. 

“ I ’ve always reckoned,” continued the squire, “ that, when rum 
got into a family, ’t was a sort o’ leprosy, — only the spots were 
commonly red rather than white. It ’s amazing catching ; wives 
catch it from their husbands — husbands from their wives — chil- 
dren from their parents, and so on. I was very much struck by 
Mr. Merlin’s observation, about looking back to the remote causes 
o’ drunkenness. I told ye I was born the seventeenth o’ June ; 
it like to have been the death on me. My father was an ensign, 
during the revolutionary war. He was at the battle o’ Bunker’s 
Hill. He had his flag-staff shot off in the middle, by a cannon-shot, 
and he kept the part he then held in his hand, to his dying day. I 
never saw him so angry, as when one of the women took it to sup- 
ply the place of the churn-handle that got broke. Well, next to the 
Lord’s day, there was no day in the year, with him, like the seven- 
teenth o’ June. He loved to talk o’ nothing so much as o’ that day, 
and o’ the battle. I ’ve been axed, a hundred times, how I was 
connected with the Bunker family, only because my father had me 
christened Bunker Periwig, in honor of that memorable event. A 
week afore the anniversary, and a week arter, every year, at the 
least, was took up in talking about the battle. The first dram 1 
ever drank, was in honor o’ that occasion. I was n’t eight years 
old. To make it go down, father put in a lump o’ sugar. I soon 
got to like it, and used to long for the anniversary. I remember, 
one time, I got thoroughly fuddled ; and, as it was at another time 
o’ the year, my father was very angry, and still more so, when, in 
answer to his inquiry how I dared to drink up his gin, and make a 
beast o’ myself, T told him ’twas in honor o’ Bunker Hill. I desire 
to bless the TiOrd, I have escaped being a drunkard. There were five 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


305 


men then living in Tattertown — every one of ’em died a drunkard 

— who were in that battle. My father used to have ’em all at his 
house, on the seventeenth. Every one of these men was perfectly 
sure he shot Major Pitcairn. The more flip they drank, the more 
sure they got ; and the mattei wasn’t ilways ended without a fight 
Old Loomis made my father very angry, one time, by breaking the 
end of the old flag-staff, that was always brought out on them days, 
and laid on the table, over Bob Haggerty’s head. I dare say there 
are some here now, that remember Bob Haggerty. You remember 
Haggerty, neighbor Killem, don’t yel” — “No, I don’t,” replied 
Mr. Killem, gruffly. — “How you talk!” rejoined the squire; 
“ wdiy, I ’ll state a circumstance that ’ll refresh your memory.” — 
“ Squire Periwig,” said Mr. Killem, angrily, “ you ’ve insulted me 

once already, in this meeting, to-night, and I ” “ No offence, 

neighbor,” said the squire, “ I was e’enamost sure you must remem- 
ber Haggerty. You remember a little short woman, with reddish 
hair, that went crazy, and died in the poor-house ; she ’s been dead 
about twenty years.” — “ No, I don’t remember anything about your 
short woman,” growled the inn-holder. — “ Well, that ’s amazing,” 
said the squire ; “ she used to come and sit on your steps, and beg 
you not to sell any more rum to her husband ; and when you drove 
her off, as it was natural enough you should do, — for I used to 
think it must be awful unpleasant, — she used to go and sit on the 
horse-block, and cry, as though her heart would break. That wo- 
man, that you don’t remember nothing about, was Haggerty’s wife.” 

At that moment, the attention of all present was called to a wo- 
man, who walked rapidly out of the meeting-house, with her head 
bowed down and her handkerchief before her eyes. “ Dear me,” 
said the squire, as he looked at her attentively, “I’m very unlucky ; 
if I ’d known that woman was here, I should have been more careful 
I thought she was settled in Hopville. That ’s Haggerty’s darter , 
the very one that he used, when she was a child, to send to your 
bar, neighbor Killem, for rum.” — “ I wish to know, if it is expected 
of me,” said the tavern-keeper, “to sit here quietly, and hear all 
this abuse?” — “Squire Periwig,” said the Rev. Mr. Moose, “I 
think it would be well to avoid such direct, personal remarks.” 

— “ Reverend sir,” replied the squire, “ I only wanted to refresh 
neighbor Killem’s memory.” — “ Well, sir,” rejoined the clergy- 
man, “ it would be more in order, I conceive, to avoid calling any 
person, who is here present, by name ; you can make yourself suffi- 
ciently intelligible, without a personal appeal.” — “I will endeavoi 
to do so,” replied the squire, and continued as follows : 

“ I have told you how near I came lo being a drunkard, in honoi 

YOL. II. 26* 


506 TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 

af the seventeenth o’ June. I forgot to say, that, arter we ha^ 
taken quite as much, in honor of that day, as the occasion seemed 
to require, my father alwa 3 *s made what he called a tip-top mug o’ 
toddy, in honor o’ my birth-day, and would n’t let us leave a drop 
on it. ’T is wonderful from how small and remote a cause, the 
habit of drunkenness will arise. I could tell a great many stories, 
about the intemperance o’ Tattertown ; but, after my dreadful bad 
luck to-night, I ’m afeard to venture, lest I should give offence. 1 
do remember, however, the history of one family, about which 1 
believe I may speak, without hurting anybody’s feelings. The fam 
ily ’s dead and buried, all of ’em, long ago ; and I ’m very sartin 
there ’s no kith nor kin left hereabouts. I s’pose I ’m in order, in 
telling the name, as they ’ve all been in their graves full sixteen 
years. I refer to Millikin, the cooper, his wife and five children.” 
— At this moment, Mr. Killem, by a sudden jerk of his body, and 
kick of his boot, sent the cricket from one end of his pew to the 
other, with such violence as to draw all eyes in that direction. A 
dead stillness ensued, broken, after a moment, by the squire. 
“I’m afear’d I ’m out of order agin, and yet I don’t see how, for 1 
mentioned no name but that of Millikin, who isn’t here to be hurt 
by what I say, though he used to be here pretty constant, as one of 
your congregation. Reverend sir. I ’ve seen him here in this house, 
with his wife and five children, and healthier and happier folks never 
entered these doors. They used to sit in that pew ; I hardly know 
how to describe it, for it is n’t in order to call names, — I mean the pew 
where the gentleman sits who kicked the cricket over. Millikin 
owned that very pew, and paid his taxes regularly for several years.” 

It was rather cool for the fifth of November, but Mrs. Killem, the 
landlady, began to fan herself with her handkerchief, and the per- 
spiration was gathering upon the innholder’s forehead. 

“ Nothing, I reckon,” resumed the squire, “ was ever more 
remote, as a cause of intemperance, than the thing, which actually 
produced it, in this family. You will smile, some of you, perhaps, 
when I tell you, it was a little runlet, not three inches long. The 
father made it, for the amusement of his youngest boy, Peter. He 
fixed a string to it, and carried it about his neck. One day, he was 
playing, in front of the tavern door, and somebody, — I a’n’t agoing 
to get out of order agin, by calling names,— beckoned to him to come 
in. So little Peter ran in, and the gentleman, — whose name I 
sha’n’t speak, because he ’s here in the meet’n’us, — filled his little 
runlet with toddy. It afforded great amusement to a number of 
rery philanthropic people, round the tavern door, to see Peter strut 
about, and sip his toddy from the runlet. He soon became fuddled, 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


307 


g'Ot on the horse-hlock, fell asleep, tumbled off and broke his arm.’ 

[t s false,” said Mr. Killem. — “So it is,” said the squire, 
“ ’twas his leg. I came along pa.st, jest about then, and carried 
him home, in my vvagon. Little Peter told his brothers how they 
filled his runlet, and how sweet the toddy w^as. They, naturally 
enough, teased their father, till he made runlets for ’em all. These 
boys carried their runlets to school ; and, when they were let out, 
they ran before the tavern and the grocery, till some kind, consid- 
erate person filled their runlets with toddy, or flip, or some other 
intoxicating liquor. Before this time, Millikin, the father, was as 
likely and as industrious a man, as any in our village. Until this 
period, he had no account, at the tavern or the grocery, for sperret. 
But, soon after fixing off the boys with runlets, he began to run up 
a bill at both places, for rum and gin, but much the most at the tav- 
ern. When little Peter’s leg got well, the first thing almost that 
he did was to rig on his runlet, and go to the tavern. The man 
who filled his runlet the first time, was, very naturally, pleased to 
find, that he had n’t been the cause of breaking his neck, for there 
had been considerable talk about the matter, as it was. He felt, 
like enough, that little Peter had helped him to inoculate the family, 
for it ’s jest like the small-pox, jest as catching. So he called him 
in, the minute he saw him, and filled his runlet agin, and bid him 
not get up on the horse-block, but carry it home to his mammy. 
So off Peter trotted, and the result proved how well he executed 
his commission. When the father, or the mother, or the sisters 
took a suck at Peter’s runlet, Billy, and Sammy, and Johnny, and 
Bobby, would be uneasy, till their parents and sisters had taken a suck 
at their runlets. I remember well. Parson Moose, when convers- 
, ing with you about poor Millikin, many years ago, that you remarked 
on the pleasure you had enjoyed, that morning, when, after expos- 
tulating with the poor man upon his bad habit, you returned to your 
study, and, upon opening the window, listened, for an hour, to the 
music of his cooper’s hammer. But it w'as all over with the Milli- 
kins. I reckon there are some constitutions, that go very quick, 
when the liquor takes hold. The Millikins fell ofl:' amazing quick 
indeed. Their little property soon melted away. Them five run- 
lets was like five vials o’ wrath poured out upon their heads. They 
had a noble cow, but she did n’t give toddy, so they sold her very 
soon. The father became an idle, miserable wretch. The mother 
got drunk, fell in the fire, and w'as burnt to death. Both the girls 
were drunkards, and died o’ consumption. The father drowned 
himself. Two of the boys died in the poor-house, one was killed 
in a fight. How the fourth died I don’t remember. Peter lived 


308 


TEMPERANCE MEEHNO IN TATTERTOWN. 


the longest. Long before he died, he got him a larger runlet ; and, 
one December night, he got drunk, lay out, and friz to death, with 
the runlet hanging round his neck. So they all died ; and tho 
whole cause o’ the destruction o’ this family was neither more nor 
less than that are little runlet not more than three inches long. 
But I ’m e’enamost ashamed o’ myself, for taking up so much time, 
that might be better employed by other folks.” 

The squire resumed his seat. A brief silence ensued, during 
which, many eyes were directed to Mr. Killem’s pew ; and the :e 
was a pretty general expectation that he would rise, in reply to the 
last speaker. But, in this, the assembly were disappointed. The 
tavern-keeper seemed to be of an opinion that his strength consisted 
in sitting still, and exhibiting what the French, when speaking of 
the English, are pleased to call the grand talent for silence. 

At length, the attention of the congregation was turned to Mr. 
Skillington, the oldest, decidedly the honestest, and altogether the 
poorest of five members of the legal profession, who picked up a 
scanty support, out of the necessities and distresses of Tattertown. 

“Rev. sir,” said he, “nothing was further from my thoughts, 
when I came here, than the intention of addressing this assembly. 
But the remarks of Squire Periwig have almost raised the dead 
before my eyes. If I were a Swedenborgian, I could not more 
powerfully recall from their resting-places those, who have long 
slept in their silent graves. I perfectly remember the Millikins, and 
those five boys, and their five rulilets. The squire has told you the 
whole story, with one important exception — he has said nothing of 
the untiring efforts of one worthy man to reclaim the members of 
this miserable family — to keep them from sacrificing the wretched 
remnants of their little property — that cow, the last and main de- 
pendence of these poor people ; how well I remember the exertions 
of that worthy man to save that cow from the rum-seller’s grasp, 
but the rum-seller’s till engulfed it all, bone and muscle, hoof and 
horn, hide and tallow. I cannot forget the efforts of that good man, 
however ineffectually employed, in behalf of the poor cooper and his 
family. Squire Periwig would not have neglected to call this good 
Samaritan by name, had the benevolent individual been any other 
person than himself. 

“ Mr. Merlin and the squire have adverted to some of the lemote 
causes of intemperance. It has been frequently remarked , that we 
are the creatures of circumstances. Our occupations and pursuits, 
the society, to which we are accustomed, have, necessarily, an im- 
portant influence upon our characters. It is not at all surprising, 
that men, who meddle with edge tools, should occasionally cut theii 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TAITERTOWN. 


309 


fingers. There is notning to excite our admiration in the notorious 
fact, that a large proportion of those, who are engaged in the manu- 
facture of the means of drunkenness, and the traffic therein, should, 
sooner or later, fall into habits of intemperance themselves; and, 
according to scriptural prediction, become the occupants of those 
very pits, which they have prepared for the rest of mankind. We 
are imitative creatures. The force of example may be expected to 
operate upon the wives and children of intemperate men, especially 
ts the vice is in accordance with appetite ; and so rapidly contagious 
is this terrible distemper, that, in a family of half a dozen members 
or more, it is sometimes impossible, after a few short years of indul- 
gence, to say, with perfect certainty, who was the original file leader 
among this miserable band of inebriates. 

“ It is highly probable, that a considerable number of those inn- 
holders, distillers, and retailers, who have become drunkards, would 
have been temperate men, had they selected different occupations. 

“ Such are among the proximate and perfectly intelligible causes 
of intemperance, in individuals, and in families. But it is occasion- 
ally in our power to trace this destructive habit to some particular 
cause, so remote, and so apparently inadequate for the production 
of such terrible results, that nothing, short of an attentive exami- 
nation of the whole chain, throughout its entire extent, will satisfy 
our minds that the last link is really connected with the first. 

“ If a doubt exist in the mind of any one, that parents should be 
exceedingly careful in the selection of those toys, which they put 
into the hands of their children, let him reflect upon the simple nar- 
rative you have heard this evening, of Peter Millikin’s runlet. 

“ Domestic distress has very frequently introduced the demon of 
intemperance into those families, where as much of happiness, as is 
well for us, in this state of trial, had existed for many years. The 
poor, half-distracted father, goaded by misfortune, has fallen down 
before that false god, the rum-jug, and worshipped with his lips ; 
and, alas! the wife — the children have followed the miserable ex- 
ample. The intemperance of vanity — the intemperance of display 
— of luxury — the pride of life — have frequently proved the insidi- 
ous precursors of the intemperance of alcohol. 

“There is, as has often been said, a common bond among the 
sciences — such assuredly exists among the crimes and the follies 
of mankind. They are strangely related to one another, and a faith- 
ful narrative of the original causes — the remote influences, which 
have conducted mankind to misery and madness, through the ave- 
nues of crime, would not unfrequently be interesting, in the highest 
degree, to the philosopher and the Christian. In many cases, cause 


810 


TEMPERANCE MEETLNG IN TATTERTOfVN. 


and effect are too closely and too clearly allied, to be misapprehended 
for a moment. But there are examples, not a few, in which it is 
scarcely to be believed, that causes, so extremely remote, so appa- 
rently trivial, should have indeed sufficed for the destruction of the 
bodies and the souls of men ; and by a process, which, at first, seemed 
not particularly calculated for the production of such terrible results. 

“ Archibald Lane was a very clever fellow, and his pretty young 
wife was as clever as he. He was a shopkeeper in the city, and 
then recently established in business. She was very worthily con- 
nected in a neighboring village, and the most delightful chorister in 
the parish. One Sabbath in June, — even Burns would have called 
it ‘ a bonnie day,’ — Mr. Lane visited his cousin in Cricketville, and 
was so enraptured with the tones of the chief female singer, that, 
I ’m grieved to admit, upon his return to the city, he could give no 
account of the sermon, whatever ; and had even forgotten the 
preacher’s name. When the last hymn had been sung, the little 
green curtain was drawn aside, in front of the chorister’s seat, and 
Peggy Picket looked forth upon the congregation. She had been 
requested, as all singers are, on similar occasions, to sing the hymn 
for the glory of God ; and we trust, and confidently too, she had 
done so, for she was truly an excellent girl ; but she looked, at the 
time, as if she thought the hymn had been pretty well sung. Her 
eyes launched downward directly upon Archibald Lane, and so im- 
mediately, that, if the thing had not been utterly impossible, it might 
have been supposed, that his cousin had informed Miss Picket, that 
Mr. Lane would take his seat in their pew. Be that as it may, it 
was all over with poor Archy. Let us compress this part of our 
narrative into the narrow compass of a nutshell, and say as little as 
possible of their introduction, and of all the delicate things that were 
thought and said between the parties, and the delicate things which 
were sent from Mr. Lane’s store for Miss Picket, and the delicate 
messages in return, which passed from Miss Picket to Mr. Lane. 
The parents of Miss Picket were prevailed on to give their consent, 
and the five remaining Miss Pickets were immediately put under 
the instruction of Mr. Jeduthun Kidder, instructor in psalmody. 

“ Archibald and Peggy were married. They commenced their 
joint career in a small tenement, of modest pretensions, and furnished 
it in a style of moderation and economy, which was duly propor- 
tioned to their humble finances, and augured favorably for their 
future prosperity and peace. 

“ Their happiness, for a few weeks, was observed by all ; it was 
an object of interest and pleasure to well-disposed people ; and to 
unmarried ladies of no particular age, seemed perfectly ridiculous. 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 311 

This happy couple appeared, like the French Republic, ‘ one and 
indivisible.’ 

“ They might, for all I know to the contrary, have continued 
progressing in happiness to the present hour, had not Colonel Saul 
Picket returned, after having accumulated property in South India, 
and, designing to do the handsome thing, presented his niece with a 
sf,.endid silver pitcher. — Alas ! it became the nest egg of destruc- 
tion — the very apple of discord between this simple pair. Had 
Colonel Saul imported the plague, and introduced it into their peace- ^ 
fal habitation, he scarcely could have perpetrated a greater injury 
upon its unoffending inmates. 

“ Utterly unable to enjoy, alone, the delight produced by this 
unexpected blessing, Peggy immediately despatched a messenger to 
request Mr. Lane to return home, as soon as possible. When the 
messenger arrived, Mr. Lane was engaged in the difficult task of 
suiting Madam Bumble with a particular shade of gros de Naples, 
and was, at that moment, taking down the nineteenth parcel from 
an upper shelf. The ragged boy, who brought the message, and 
delivered it in haste, was off before any explanation could be asked 
of him. Mr. Picket was fully impressed with the idea, that his 
wife was suddenly taken ill. ‘Bless me!’ said he; and leaping 
suddenly down from the high steps, upon which he was mounted, 
the solid parcel of silk slipped from his hand, and, falling directly 
upon the old lady’s bonnet, broke in the front part of it, and so 
highly offended Mrs. Bumble, that she never visited his shop after 
that eventful day. Mr. Lane hastened home, as fast as possible ; 
and, as he entered, almost breathless, at the door, his wife, her 
countenance beaming with delight, met him, holding aloft the silver 
pitcher in both her iiands,-and exclaiming, ‘There, Archy, there! 
see what uncle Saul has sent me ; isn’t it beautiful!’ 

“ ‘ Dear me,’ he exclaimed, as he sunk into a chair, ‘ is that all!’ 

“ ‘ Why, husband,’ she replied, ‘ I ’m sure it ’s a very handsome 
present ; and you must allow that uncle Saul has done the genteel 
thing, my dear.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, yes — to be sure — certainly,’ exclaimed Mr. Lane ; ‘ but 
you have no idea how much you alarmed me, by the suddenness of 
your message — truly it is very — very elegant; where will you 
place it, my love — over the fireplace!’ 

“ ‘ Why Archy ! certainly not — on the sideboard, to be sure.’ 

“ ‘ How it will look ! — that splendid silver pitcher on that little 
second-hand sideboard. I don’t know, however ; you would put a 
mat underneath, and that would serve to cover the old crack in the 
centre. But are you sure it is solid silver, my dear !’ said he, 
knocking the pitcher with his knuciiue. 


312 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


“ ‘ Why, Archibald ! how you talk. Do you think uncle Saul ie 
so mean, that he would send me a pewter one?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, you ’re right, it ’s silver, my dear, I see by the stamp. 
Well, it is very handsome — yes — it is very — very,’ 

“‘Isn’t it!’ exclaimed the delighted proprietress, turning it 
round in every direction. 

“Mr. Lane hastened back to his shop, and his little wife con- 
tinued, for more than an hour, perambulating her apartment, and 
surveying her charming acquisition, in every point of view. 

“ The wisdom of Franklin, and his penetration into the character 
of man were never more forcibly exhibited, than when he observed, 
that we are ruined by the eyes of others, and not by our own ; for, 
if there were none, besides our own, to regard our possessions, our 
furniture and equipages would be commonly far less showy and 
expensive than they are. 

“ Mrs. Lane had not enjoyed this peculiar blessing for two short 
hours, before she became impatient to exhibit it to others. It was 
not long before she was gratified, by the arrival of one of her neigh- 
bors, Mrs. Freetattle, who made herself exceedingly agreeable, by 
talking of nothing but the silver pitcher. She thought it the most 
beautiful thing she had ever beheld — decidedly so. She had seen 
a very handsome one at Colonel Rideup's, very beautiful to be sure, 
but really it was very inferior to this, in size, and the taste of its 
workmanship. ‘ What a fine thing it is, my dear Mrs. Lane,’ said 
she, ‘ to have a rich uncle Saul ! And what a fine thing it would be 
if he would make you a handsome present of a decent-looking side- 
board, to set that elegant pitcher upon I I beg your pardon, my dear, 
[ did not mean to disparage your furniture ; your little sideboard 
was very neat, when it was first made, no doubt; but it ’s cracked, 
you know, and I think the turpentine and beeswax always show 
very plainly, when th-e veneering is peeling off. It ’s well enough 
to begin with ; but now you ’ve got that splendid pitcher — bless me 
— you never could think of retaining such a sideboard as that. 
Everybody says Mr. Lane is doing a great business. I ’m thinking, 
my dear, you ’ll soon have another article in the place of that.’ 

“ Mrs. Lane had already begun to think so too; for, although the 
color slightly tinged her countenance, when Mrs. Freetattle first 
adverted to the appearance of her little sideboard, recollecting, 
humble as it was, that her stock of furniture had drawn from her 
father’s pocket all he could possibly alford, yet she felt the perfect 
justice of that sagacious lady’s observations. Every alternate 
glance, which, from time to time, she directed to the pitcher and the 
sideboard, served to confirm her impression of their utter incongruity. 


TEMPERAx\CE MEETING IN TATTEKTOWN. 


313 


T^pon her husband’s return, at the dinner hour, Mrs. Lane 
coir.nidnicated the opinion of Mrs. Freetattle, respecting the side 
board. — ‘"VYell, Peggy,’ said he, ‘Mrs. Freetattle is perfectly 
light. That splendid pitcher, upon that little, second- hand side- 
bv^ara, certainly resembles a first-rate French cape, over a half-worn 
ninep'^nny calico. Suppose, my love, you lock the pitcher up, 
until some future day, when we can afford, as perhaps we may, a 
change for the better, in our whole establishment. My business is 
so good, at present, that I should not be surprised, if, in a few years, 
we might be able to take a house in Dashaway court or Pepper- 
mint square. In the mean time, you can exhibit the pitcher you 
know, to any of your friends, who may drop in upon you.’ 

“ ‘ Dear Archy,’ said his pretty little wife, ‘ I ’m sure, uncle Saui 
would be hurt, if we locked up the pitcher. Besides, how vulgar 
it would look for me to run, every time any visitor dropped in, and 
get the key, and unlock the door, and lug out the pitcher. — Mrs. 
Freetattle told me a great deal of news, this morning. She says 
Jerry Bustler, that married Priscilla Millet, of Cricketville, has taken 
one of the new houses in Peppermint square, and furnished it ele- 
gantly. I never was more astonished. What would my father 
say, — he a town clerk, and Priscy’s father nothing but a butcher ! 
Priscy Millet in Peppermint square ! ha, ha, ha !’ 

“There was an expression of bitterness, accompanying this 
exclamation, which Mr. Lane had never before witnessed on the 
countenance of his wife. What a wicked little aristocrat she is ! 
thought he. 

“ ‘ My dear Peggy,’ said Mr. Lane, after a short pause, ‘ it is no 
difficult thing to take a house in Peppermint square, and to furnish 
it very handsomely ; the difficulty consists in keeping it. There is 
no difficulty in shaking off one’s old acquaintances of a humbler 
grade, — rather trying to the feelings occasionally, to be sure, — and 
in riding up into a higher circle. There is no great difficulty, if one 
has money enough, in choosing one’s society. There is one trou- 
blesome fellow, however, a privileged character, who will mtrude 
just where he pleases; and a very disagreeable fellow he is ’ — 
And pray, Archy, who is he?’ — ‘ The sheriff, my dear,’ said Mr. 
Lane. ‘ Jerry Bustler, if I do not greatly miscalculate, has made 
a sad mistake. He is a very forward fellow, thrusting himself 
somehow or other, into the foremost rank, upon every occasion. 
He has very little weight of character, and but ordinary talent, yet 
he is so exceedingly solicitous of thrusting his insignificant name 
before the public, upon every occasion, that, by a sort of common 
consent, this officious little fellow is permitted to do it ex-qfficio. 

VOL. II 27 


314 TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 

He is so apparently unconscious of any difference between Li.nself 
and men of real eminence, that he actually has caused a bust to be 
taken of himself; and, not long ago, while looking in upon an 
exhibition of statuary, I saw the fine heads of Daniel Webster and 
Judge Story, and actually, between the two, the head anJ shoulders 
of little Jerry Bustler, like a magpie perched between two great 
bald eagles. Jerry is cunning enough to know that his house 
furniture are very good travelling tickets on the highway to distinc- 
tion. I well remember the time when Jerry, as hundreda have 
done before him, came into the city. I have seen him walking tlie 
streets in his country clothes and hob-nail shoes, with a great silver 
brooch in his shirt-bosom, as big as the top of your mustard-pot, 
eating away at a sheet of gingerbread, and spelling the signs. Now 
he is one of the most finisned dandies we have; and Priscy, — for 
country girls, when they get into the city, are more apt to go to all 
fashionable extremes, than such as have lived there all their day.s, 
— Priscy dresses to the very extent of the mode.’ — ‘ I hope, dear,’ 
said Mrs. Lane, ‘ you don’t think me extravagant.’ — ‘ Not at all, 
my love, not at all,’ replied her husband. ‘ I was going to remark, 
that these new comers struggle for distinction, as earnestly, as 
though it were the chief end of man. If they miss their aim, lose 
their property, are compelled to give up their houses, furniture, and 
equipage, and become bankrupts, they are easily converted into 
admirable democrats — agrarians — sans-culottes. If, on the other 
hand, they are able to maintain their ground, by the power of 
wealth, they become very tolerable aristocrats. The old elite, 
firmly established upon their ottomans, for a long time, contemplate 
the approaches of these aspirants, with repulsive looks; and, like 
the waters of the Rhone and the Arve, though moving side by side, 
refuse to mingle. After a few years, however, the wealth of these 
successful adventurers proves too irresistible for the necessities of 
the other party; their sons and daughters form alliances; and, in 
their turn, look down upon hundreds, who are attempting to ascend 
those summits, which they have successfully attained.’ 

“ ‘ Dear Archy,’ cried Mrs Lane, taking her husband’s hand, 
‘ you talk like a book, and I love to hear you, I ’m sure I do ; but. 
Archy, dear, what do you think Mr. Veneer, the cabinet-maker, 
would allow, for our little sideboard, if we took one of his?’ 

“ ‘Ah, my dear,’ said Mr. Lane, ‘ your heart, I see, is fixed 
upon that sideboard, and you shall have it, for I can refuse you 
nothing.’ — ‘Not, if you think it extravagant, Archy,’ said his 
wife, looking up into his face with an expression, half grave and 
half jocose, which rendered her countenance more beautiful than 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


315 


before. — ‘Well, w^ell, my dear,’ cried her husband, ‘1 have been 
pretty successful of late, and will try to afford it, and economize in 
other matters.’ 

“ The very high price, which Veneer asked for the sideboard, 
selected by Mrs. Lane, and the very small amount w^hich he con- 
sented to allow for the old one, for a time caused her to hesitate. 
Veneer’s manner of standing off, and, with a half-hidden sneer, 
eying the article, which was offered as part payment, in exchange, 
was so very provoking, that Mrs. Lane, who remembered it was the 
best her poor, old father could afford, was half inclined to break off 
the negotiation in a huff. But Veneer knew well enough the ground 
he trod on. ‘Entirely out of date, ma’am,’ said he, ‘them swell 
fronts ; don’t think I could sell it at any price ; should have to send 
it to auction ; could n’t have it in my show-room ; my custom is 
such, that it would do me an injury, unless I told how I got it.’ 
Then he walked up, and, without comment, raised the wood with 
his fingers, that had begun to peel off, and pointed to the crack on 
the top. Before he had fairly gotten through this process of dispar- 
agement, so well understood by every accomplished master crafts- 
man, Mrs. Lane had become thoroughly disgusted with the article 
herself, and wondered how she had tolerated it so long. If any 
doubt still remained, as to the entire propriety of an exchange, that 
doubt was effectually removed, by one brief observation of Veneer’s. 
‘ The article you talk of, ma’am,’ said he, ‘ is a good deal higher 
finished than one we sold, last week, to a lady in Peppermint 
square.’ — ‘What was her name, Mr. Veneer P — ‘Mrs. Bustler, 
ma’am.’ — ‘ Really — indeed — well, Mr. Veneer, I think I ’ll take 
it. Perhaps, however, you had better see Mr. Lane first.’ — ‘He 
was at the shop, this morning, ma’am, and said he should be satis- 
fied with any that you chose to select.’ — ‘ Well, then I ’ll take it. 
When will you take this little, old thing away, and send the new 
oneP — ‘We can do it this morning, if you wish, ma’am,’ said 
Veneer. — ‘ Very well,’ said Mrs. Lane, and summoned the girl — 
they kept but one at that time — to assist in removing the articles 
from the old sideboard, and preparing it for removal. 

“ It has been said, that, in London, a mob, so considerable, as 
to require the aid of the police for its dispersion, has been gathered 
upon a wager, by two men, standing motionless in the street, and 
holding, between them, for an indefinite time, a small string, a few 
yards in length. It is often a matter of astonishment how trifling 
an affair will summon a congregation of idlers in our great thor- 
oughfares. When Mr. Lane returned from his place of business, 
at the usual hour, he was not a little surprised, at the appearance 


316 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


of a dense collection of men and boys, in front of his residence. He 
soon perceived, that one entire window-frame of his front parlor had 
been removed, and instantly concluded that his house had been on 
fire. The very natural feeling of alarm, with which he forced his 
way through the crowd, was immediately relieved, upon his arrival. 
It had been found impossible to introduce the new sideboard through 
the small entry of nis dwelling, and Veneer had therefore taken out 
one of the parlor windows. The operation had just been success- 
fully accomplished. ‘ Very handsome, my dear,’ said Mrs. Lane. 
‘ It certainly is very handsome,’ replied her husband ; ‘ but had yon 
any idea it would look so very large V — ‘It does seem larger here, 
my dear,’ said she, ‘ a great deal larger, than I had any idea it 
would. It did not seem half as large in your show-room, Mr. 
Veneer.’ — ‘ That is owing to the size of your parlor, madam,’ he 
replied : ‘ your room ’s uncommon small.’ Mrs. Lane had stepped 
aside, and soon returning with the silver pitcher, placed it on the side 
board. ‘ That ’s very rich,’ said Veneer ; ‘ it really seems as though 
the sideboard and the pitcher were made for each other ; but these 
chairs don’t seem the thing exactly, d’ye think they do, madam?’ 

— ‘ Well, well, my dear,’ said Mr. Lane, ‘ let ’s have dinner. We ’ve 
done enough for one day, Mr. Veneer. I ’m afraid you ’ll ruin us 
all.’ — ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ laughed Mr. A^eneer, as he proceeded to 
replace the window ; ‘ there ’s no great danger of ruining you, sir, 
I guess, such a business as you ’re driving. I never see so many 
folks in any shop in my life, as I see in yours, through them great 
plate-glass windows, bigger than two of that door. Did you see 
them French damask bottoms, ma’am, when you was at my place?’ 

— ‘I don’t think I did,’ replied Mrs. Lane. — ‘ Do call and look at 
’em, ma’am ; you no need to buy, if you don’t choose to.’ — ‘Well, 
perhaps I will.’ 

“‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ said Mr. Lane, when A’^eneer had gone, 
‘that you gave him any encouragement about the chairs.’ — ‘I 
didn’t know what to say, Archy : I did not promise to come,’ she 
replied. 

“ During their simple meal, Mrs. Lane turned her bead full twenty 
limes to contemplate her new acquisition. Her husband was more 
silent than usual. After his customary glass of wine, he grew 
somewhat more cheerful. Mr. Lane bad, for several years, been a 
member of the temperance society, and he was strictly observant 
of his pledge, which, however, comprehended only the circle of 
distilled spirits. 

“ ‘ You don't say anything about the sideboard, Archy,’ said Mrs 
Lane, as she drew her chair near his, and affectionately took his 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


317 


hand. — ‘ Peggy, my dear,’ he replied, ‘ it ’s exceedingly beautiful, 
but altogether too large for our apartment, it seems to me, and 
inconsistent with our other furniture ; but it ’s too late now to talk 
about that. And, if it gives you pleasure, I have nothing to say, 
excepting that 1 am very glad you are pleased ; and now, dear, 1 
must run after my business, or it will run away from me.’ 

“ Mrs. Lane, for some time after her husband’s departure, contin- 
ued to pace the little apartment, so much of it, at least, as remained 
unoccupied by the sideboard ; stopping at short interv'als to admire 
its proportions, and occasionally shifting the position of the silver 
pitcher, or, with her handkerchief, removing some slight finger 
mark from its highly polished surface. She was remarkably social 
in her feelings ; and, growing weary, at last, of worshipping in 
silence and alone, she summoned in Mary McGuire, her Irish 
domestic. ‘There, Mary,’ said she, ‘look there.’ — ‘ Och, my 
leddy,’ cried Mary, clapping her hands with unaffected delight, 
‘ is n’t that a nate consarn ! That swaat silver cinser i’ the middle ; 
and ye ’ll be after gitting two silver candlesticks to pit up on the 
two ends, wi’ wax tapers, to be sure ; and thin it ’ll not be i’ the 
like o’ me to say it doesn’t look jest like the great altar in the ca- 
thadral in Dublin, my leddy. Och, if your leddyship wud consint 
to gi’ me laave jist to ax father O’Schiverick to paap in some dee, 
when it ’s all fixed, and gi’ it a leetle consecration. Maybe he ’d 
not refuse to sprinkle it wi’ holy water, my leddy.’ — Mrs. Lane 
could not forbear laughing at the poor girl's erroneous impressions, 
and explained to her, that, however different in size and form, it 
was intended for the same offices as its predecessor. ‘ Indaad, my 
leddy,’ said Mary, ‘ wall, and it ’s right convanient ony how. It ’s 
varnished, ye see, and it ’ll not be nading ony rubbing, and thin it 
covers so much o’ the carpit, that it ’ll be a daal less swaaping 
we ’ll have to do.’ 

“ The rude conceptions of the poor girl, in connection with Mr. 
Lane’s suggestions, had left an impression on the mind of her mis- 
tress, that the article, some how or other, was not altogether in good 
keeping with their establishment. This impression was not likely 
to be weakened by the remarks of Miss Judy Jiggle, a cousin of her 
husband, who, shortly after, dropped in for tea and muffins. In her 
way, and it was the oddest imaginable, Judy was a nonpareil. 
That, which, in almost any other person, would have been absolute 
rudeness, was, in her, a strange compound of naivete and plain-heart- 
edness, an earnest and honest desire to promote the welfare of her 
friends, and a thorough contempt for the axiom, that the truth is 
not to be spoken at all times. Judy, after surveying the new arti- 

voL. II. 27 * 


318 TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 

cles, for a few m )ments, put her handkerchief to her mouth, evi- 
dently for the purpose of strangling a fit of laughter in its birth, but 
in vain. ‘Why, Peggy,’ said she, ‘what is all this?’ — ‘ The ^ 
pitcher,’ said Mrs. Lane, coloring with displeasure, ‘is a present 
from my uncle Saul, and the sideboard is one that Mr. Lane has 
purchased, or rather taken in exchange for our old one.’ 

“ ‘ Mercy upon me,’ cried Judy, lifting up her hands, ‘ I didn’t 
think your uncle Saul was such a fool. If he ’d sent you the value 
in money, or family stores, there would have been some sense in it. 

I should have thought cousin Archy might have had more sense 
than to have brought such an expensive thing into a house, where 
there ’s not an article to match. The next silly thing he ’ll do, I 
suppose, will be to change those mean little cane-bottom chairs, for 
some costly trumpery. He ’ll break in less than a year, I dare 
say.’ — So little ill-nature was there in these remarks, that, when, 
upon turning towards her, she perceived Mrs. Lane was shedding 
tears, ‘ There now,’ Judy exclaimed, ‘ what a fool I am ; I ’ve hurt 
your feelings, you dear soul,’ and instantly embracing her cousin, 
began to shed tears herself, which caused Peggy’s to flow more 
freely, which caused Judy to sob aloud ; and when Mr. Lane 
entered, as he did shortly after, the ladies were clasped in each oth- 
er’s arms, and seemed to be incorporated, for the purpose of carrying 
out a fit of hysterics. Enough was disclosed, in broken sentences, 
to give him a ready comprehension of the matter. ‘ Dear me,’ 
said he, ‘ I fear cousin Judy will never talk and act like the rest of 
the world, and I ’m afraid Peggy will never get thoroughly broken 
into the only safe habit, that of disregarding her strange remarks.’ 

“ ‘ Cousin Archy,’ said Miss Jiggle, ‘ one of two things you have 
got to do, either to send off that sideboard directly, or get a set of 
chairs to match.’ — ‘ Well, Judy,’ he replied, ‘I mean to do the 
latter to-morrow. Shall I have the pleasure of stopping your pretty 
mouth with a hot muffin?’ — Tea had just then been set upon the 
table. 

“ Accustomed as he was to the oddity of his cousin Judy, he 
himself was not always entirely proof against her sudden and unex 
pected attacks; her random shots occasionally found their way 
between the joints of the harness. He was evidentl}*^ piqued by her 
last suggestion, the more so, because it was based on a fact, too 
palpable to be questioned, for a moment. 

“ The very next day a new bargain was made with "Veneer; a 
complete set of new mahogany chairs took the place of the little 
cane-bottoms : and, to make the arrtingement one of agreeable sur- 
piise to his wife, an opportunity was selected, during her absenc# 


TEMPEIIANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 319 

in the morning, for effecting the exchange. It would be a work of 
sr-percrogation to give a detailed account of the exclamations of 
wonder and delight, the dear Archys, and dear Peggys, that passed, 
upon this interesting occasion. 

“ How soon possession makes us poor ! A week had not run by, 
when Mr. Lane had the mortification, upon his return, one evening, 
from the store, of finding his little wife suffering from unaccountable 
depression of spirits. It was a long time before his most earnest 
inquiries could elicit the cause. ‘ Whom have you had to visit you 
ro-day, my love?’ said Mr. Lane. — ‘Mrs. Pryer, my dear,’ she 
replied, ‘ and the three Miss Pickflaws, and Mrs. Upperdunk, and a 
very disagreeable body she is ; and Mrs. Freetattle passed half the 
morning here.’ — ‘ Well, and was not Mrs. Freetattle pleased, that 
you had taken her advice about the sideboard?’ — ‘ Oh yes, Archy, 
she seemed mightily pleased. The first thing she said, when she 
saw it, was, “ There, dear, didn’t I tell you so!” She praised it 
to the skies. She called the other ladies to look at it. The Miss 
Pickflaws had never seen one of that kind, that didn’t crack — they 
thought it much too large — it was very handsome, but sideboards 
''vere going out very rapidly. Mrs. Freetattle requested Mrs. Up- 
■ ’rdunk to look at the chairs, and all she said was “ umph,” turning 
1 er nose up in the air. She then asked her if she did not think the 
>•' deboard very handsome ; and again she said “ umph,” tossing her 
ni'Se still higher. She then drew her attention to the pitcher, when 
she cried “ umph,” louder than before, and tossed her nose higher 
than ever. After she had gone, the three Miss Pickflaws, who, I 
thought, were her most intimate friends, from their particular 
sweetness towards her, remarked upon the rudeness of her manners. 
They laughed heartily at her bustle, which was all on one side. — 
They said she was nobody in Germany, and that she had not the 
true, fashionable toss of the nose, by any means. I don’t believe the 
Miss Pickflaws are very sincere ; for Mrs. Freetattle told me, when 
we were by ourselves, that, notwithstanding their compliments, 
which were very lavishly bestowed, they were, all the time they 
were here, making fun of the carpet. She says she saw the eldest, 
Miss Betty, as often as my back was turned, pointing one finger at 
the carpet and another at the pitcher. Mrs. Freetattle says, Archy 
dear, that this Kidderminster carpet will never answer in the world 
with the sideboard and chairs : she also said the furnishing would 
be very incomplete, even then, without one pier-table at least, and 
a sofa.’ — * Really, dear Peggy,’ said Mr. Lane, with an unusually 
anxious expression of face, ‘ really I cannot afford it.’ — ‘I told her 
aOf Archy , and, only think, she laughed in my face, and said every- 


320 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN 


body knew you was getting rich very fast, and that, for her part, 
she could n’t see the wisdom of hoarding up riches for nobod}- Lr.-iw 
whom.’ — ‘ I rather think,’ replied Mr. Lane, ‘ that I understand my 
alfairs better than Mrs. Freetattle.’ — ‘I’m afraid, Archy,’ said 
his wife, as she noticed the gravity of her husband’s countenarce, 
‘ I ’m afraid you ’ll think I am extravagant, and I ’m sure dear 
Archy,’ — a tear stood in her eye, — it was a pearl, in her over-fond 
husband’s estimation, sufficiently valuable to pay for the celebrated 
‘cloth of gold,’ and, of course, for the finest Saxony in the world. 

— ‘Extravagant! my love, certainly not. Mrs. Freetattle is right, 
perfectly right. Consistency demands, that we should have these 
articles, or rid ourselves of the others ; the latter is out of the ques- 
tion.’ He kissed his pretty wife, incomparably more so in her 
tears ; and, instead of devoting their evening to the perusal of some 
interesting volume, according to their usual custom, they consumed 
it in discoursing upon the comparative merits of Brussels and Sax- 
ony, measuring their floor to ascertain the number of yards required, 
and deciding upon the most appropriate positions for the pier-tables 
and the sofa. ‘ Well, my love,’ said Mr. Lane, after the little area 
had been traversed as industriously as ever the South Pacific was 
traversed by Captain Cook, ‘ I feel more weary than is usual f. r 
me ; before we retire, let ’s have a glass of that sherry.’ — ‘ What, 
now^ dear?’ said his wife ; ‘you never took wine, in the evening, 
since I knew you, and you used to say, that one glass after dinner 
was your daily allowance.’ — ‘ True, Peggy, but this is my nightly 
allowance,’ said he, with a laugh. — Mrs. Lane produced the de- 
canter, and her husband, after persuading his wife to take a glass 
first herself, poured out a brimmer ; and, after drinking it, and com- 
menting on the good quality of the sherry, he poured out another. 
‘Mrs. Freetattle ’s a philosopher, Peggy,’ said he, as he continued 
to sip. ‘ There ’s not much wisdom, as she says, in hoarding up 
riches. What is the use of it ! If we don’t enjoy life’s blessings, 
as we go along, we shall get to the end of it before we know it.’ — 

‘ Why, Archy, my love,’ cried his wife, as he was proceeding tc 
pour out another glass, ‘you’ll be tipsy as sure as you live.’ — 
‘ Never fear, my little angel, this shall be the last. I should like to 
see those three Pickflaws swallowed up like Korah’s troop in the 
primer — ha! ha! ha! Jerry Bustler in Peppermint square ! He 
must look and feel like an asrs in armor. — I ’ll tell you what, Peggy 

— in one year from this time, I’ll — you’ll see — never mind. — 
Lovey, I ’ve been thinking we must, before long, be doing the gen- 
teel thing by your uncle Saul. We must have him to dinner, my 
dear. We must do the thing handsomely, you know. Let’s see 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


321 


wliotn shall we invite 1 there ’s — ’ — ‘ It ’s past eleven, Archy,’ said 
his wife ; ‘ suppose we talk of it to-morrow.’ — ‘ Uncle Saul,’ said 
Mr. Lane, slapping the table so smartly, as he rose, that his little 
wife looked round with astonishment, — ‘ uncle Saul never tasted 
better wine than- that. Freetattle ’s a philosopher ; you may tell 
her I say so,’ With these words, Mr. Lane suffered his wife to 
remove the decanter, and they retired for the night. 

“ Mr. Lane awoke rather later than usual, with a headache. 
Mrs. Lane had a restless night. She had fantastic dreams of Mrs. 
Freetattle, and Veneer, and her uncle Saul. These visions were 
the very quintessence of absurdity, but they were faithfully related, 
as usual, at the breakfast-table ; and the laughter they occasioned 
seemed to have a beneficial influence upon her husband’s headache, 
for he complained of it no more. She had seen, in her sleep, four 
immense pier-tables, and on each an uncle Saul, the size of a giant, 
holding four capacious silver pitchers, larger than cider-barrels ; 
her cousin Judy and the three Miss Pickflaws stood, each by the 
side of one of the pitchers, and, at the same instant, they all pointed 
their fingers at her, with a malicious laugh, and a sheriff jumped 
out of every pitcher. In a moment, the scene appeared to change, 
and she seemed to be alone, in her father’s little parlor, in Cricket- 
vilL. 

“ Many weeKs naa not elapsed before Mrs. Lane became the 
happy proprietress of an exceedingly beautiful Brussels carpet, and 
hearth-rug, and two handsome pier-tables, with an elegant steel fire- 
set, and some very pretty mantel ornaments, selected by that atten- 
tive and excellent friend, Mrs. Freetattle. 

“ There are some things more easy, amid the chances and changes 
of this world, than to keep, with perfect accuracy, the run of one’s 
affairs, — or, as the seamen say, to cast the log, — allow for lee- 
way, and tides, and currents. Even with a well-defined revenue, 
as little liable to be affected by the operation of events as possible, 
it is not the most simple affair so to distribute one’s resources, over 
the whole annual circle, that no deficiency shall be found in any 
particular part ; or, in the expressive phraseology of Tooley McPhee, 
‘ to sprid a pund o’ butter so nately and complately over an acre o’ 
brid, as not to laave a thridbare spot anywhere at all.’ The supe- 
lioiity of prevention over remedy is nowhere more manifest, than in 
relation to the habit of extravagance. When once commenced, it is 
not easily corrected. Mr. Lane idolized his little wdfe ; and our 
friends, the Irish, are not more thoroughly convinced, that every 
species of extravagance is sanctified, when money and credit are em- 
ployed for a ‘ birrel and a wake,’ than was he, when devoting his 


322 TEMPERANCE RIEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 

resources for the gratification of her wishes. It was most true these 
expenditures preyed upon his purse severely, and at a time wheji 
money was scarce, and he could poorly aftbrd to abstract a single 
dollar of his capital from trade. But the pleasure he received — • 
the reflected pleasure — from contemplating the satisfaction, exhib- 
ited by her, in the midst of her possessions, was a luxury, for which 
h« was willing to pay a full equivalent. 

“ In a few weeks, came off, to use a popular phrase, the dinner 
to uncle Saul. I could readily describe that dinner — I was there 
— but the detail, however amusing, would consume more time than 
can be afforded by this assembly ; and I perceive the candles are> 
some of them, already ” — turning with a smile towards Captain 
Tarbjx — “more than half seas over.” — “Plenty more in the 
locker, sir,” said the captain, and gave the sexton a hint, who 
promptly attended to his duty. “It was a fine affair,” continued 
Mr. Skillington. “ I will only say that about eighteen of us sat 
down to an elegant repast, in the preparation of which no expense 
seemed to have been spared. By the advice of Mrs. Freetattle, who 
loaned her man, Tim Hurry, for the occasion, a new extension table 
had been purchased of Veneer, and a quantity of silver forks from 
the jeweller. Mrs. Lane observed, that she was sure she did not 
want them, but she supposed, as the company were fashionable 
folks, they would think it rather strange not to see them on the 
table. It was, in truth, a merry time. Everybody was in excellent 
humor. Colonel Picket, better known to this assembly as uncle 
Saul, drank more wine than was good for him, and so, I am sorry 
to say it, did Mr. Lane. The old temperance societies were then 
becoming popular, I mean those, whose members abstained from 
ardent spirit alone. Uncle Saul approved of them highly ; so did 
Mr. Lane ; and the more wine they drank, the more severe were 
their remarks against the use and traffic in ardent spirit. There 
was a degree of ignorance, then prevailing, in regard to the philoso- 
phy of drunkenness, which is matter of infinite surprise to us now. 
We did not seem to reflect, that with Him, who is of purer eyes 
than to behold iniquity, and who has commanded us to abstain from 
drunkenness, it can be of no importance, whether that drunkenness 
be produced by rum or by wine — by one inebriant or by another. 
We were none of us in the very best possible condition for drawing 
distinctions upon that occasion. — Uncle Saul was the lion, of course 
He told stories of India, as George Coleman says, 

‘ Long, dull, and old. 

As great lords’ stories often are.’ 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


323 


He told us about the suttees, and about the seapoys ; and poor Mrs. 
Freetattle inquired how they were seasoned, mistaking the word for 
sea-pies, which occasioned much laughter, in which Mary McGuire, 
the Irish girl, joined so heartily, that Mrs. Lane was obliged to bid 
her leave the room. On the whole, the affair went off exceedingly 
well. The parlor was so very small, however, that it was with 
great difficulty Tim and Mary, especially the latter, who was very 
corpulent, contrived to put on and take off ; and, upon one occasion, 
as she was attempting to squeeze behind uncle Saul, at the very 
moment he was relating the history of a conflict among the Mahrat- 
tas, a sudden jerk of his chair pinned her to the wall. ‘ Och ! my 
vitals!’ she exclaimed, and, for an instant, we -supposed her seri- 
ously injured ; but fortunately she was unhurt. In the evening the 
pitcher was paraded about, filled with hot mulled wine, which cer- 
tainly was altogether superfluous. The colonel and Mr. Lane 
seemed to be on the footing of old and familiar friends. I overheard 
them conversing on the subject of cashmeres, and the colonel told 
him he would put him in the way of getting them of a very superior 
quality, and almost for nothing. At length the party broke up ; 
and uncle Saul went off in the greatest glee, about twelve at night, 
telling the company that they were, one and all, bound over to meet 
at his house, some day the following week, to taste his India wine. 

“ A few days after this important event, Mrs. Lane unexpectedly 
received a visit from Mrs. Bustler. ‘ Only think of it, Archy,’ said 
the former to her husband, on his return from the store, ‘ Priscy 
Millet, Mrs. Jerry Bustler I mean, called here to-day in a coach. 
It was so late I thought nobody would come, and Mary had laid the 
cloth, which was a little soiled — I told the foolish girl, yesterday, 
not to lay that cloth again, till it had been washed — besides, it, 
most unfortunately, had a hole in it. What sent her here, I ’m sure 
I don’t know. It ’s full half a year, since I ’ve seen her to speak to 
her. I should scarcely have known her anywhere, she was so 
bedizened off with all sorts of fine things — her gold watch, and 
gold pencil-case, and chains, and sable muff and tippet, and diamond 
pin ; and, you know how thin her figure is — well, as she went out, 
she looked like an air balloon, and Mary said, it was so enormous 
that she could scarcely get it into the carriage after her, and the 
coachman had to “ squaaze it in after the poor leddy.” She ’s ost 
all her bloom. I could scarcely believe she was the rosy-faced girl 
that I used to see sitting in her homespun frock, at her father’s 
window in Cricketville, binding shoes. — “Why, Priscy,” said I 
as she came in, “ is it you ?” She replied, with all the fonnality in 
the world, “ I hope you are well, madam.” She scarcely said & 


324 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


word, after she sat down. I tried to support the conversation, as 
well as I was able ; and I never was so tired in all my life. 1 
alluded to our former residence in Cricketville. “ It ’s so long since 
I was there, ma’am,” said she, “ that my recollection of Cricketville 
is quite evanescent.” I could almost have laughed in her face. — 
“ You do not visit much, I believe, ma’am,” said she ; “ I did not 
see you at Mrs. Perriwinkle’s rout, nor at Mrs. Flipparty’s ball,” 
This was only to show me she was there herself. Well, not a 
remark did she make about anything she saw ; she said not a word 
about the pitcher ; and sat, the whole time, with her little, sharp, 
black eyes, staring at the hole in the table-cloth. Now it’s nothing 
but sheer envy, Archy.’ — ‘Oh no, my dear,’ he replied, ‘ I think 
you are entirely mistaken. When you return her call, you will 
probably see more finery at their house, than you are aware of. I ’m 
told it ’s very expensively furnished, and his extravagance is a com- 
mon topic. No, my dear, I think I can explain her behavior very 
readily. It is considered a mark of very high breeding to admire 
nothing, and, indeed, to seem to see nothing, in the houses of those 
we visit. That ’s it, my dear, nothing else, depend upon it.’ 

“ Uncle Saul was a bachelor. He was supposed to be immensely 
rich. He used to say, that his lungs were not strong enough for 
matrimony, and although there were some good things in it 
undoubtedly, yet he was opposed to slavery in all forms, and meant 
never to put on the fetters of wedded life. Mrs. Peggy Lane was 
his favorite niece. The corollary was irresistible, in the opinion of 
Mrs. Freetattle. She was sure he would leave the bulk of his 
wealth to Mrs. Lane, who, having the most perfect reliance upon 
the judgment of Mrs. Freetattle, was rapidly inclining to the same 
opinion. 

“ About the middle of the ensuing week, arrangements were 
made for a splendid dinner-party, at the residence of uncle Saul. 
The company were much the same as were, shortly before, 
assembled at Mr. Lane’s, with two or three additions. It was a 
sumptuous affair; and it was agreed, on all hands, that the India 
wine was incomparable. It was certainly tested by some of the 
company, most effectually. Uncle Saul himself, though a veteian 
in this species of warfare, became, long before the end of the enter- 
tainment, superlatively silly ; and Mr. Lane was clearly unable to 
talk coherently, or to speak without lisping. Even the widow, 
Mrs. Freetattle, became ridiculously sentimental, and sighed, while 
she sipped her bonne bouche, as if some weighty matter pressed upon 
her heart. Medical men, however, upon such occasions, cannot 
always determine, whether the trouble is in the heart or the epigas- 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


325 


trie region. Uncle Saul whispered something in her ear, and she 
tapped him on the cheek with her fan, and told him he was a 
naughty man. I overheard her say to him, just before we separated, 
and in rather a sotto voice, that, until that evening, she had never 
been so forcibly reminded of her dear, departed Freetattle. 

“ But it is quite desirable to condense the substance of this narra- 
tive within as small a compass as possible. We have not time for 
the entire detail. Three short years had rolled rapidly away. 
Within this period, Jerry Bustler had failed, stock and fluke, as 
Captain Tarbox would say, and become the salesman of one of his 
former clerks, who had been very successful, and was ascending the 
very ladder from which Jerry had descended. Priscilla had returned 
to her father, in Cricketville. Mr. Lane had removed into a larger 
house. His growing habits of extravagance and conviviality had 
impaired his property, seriously affected his credit, and acquired for 
him the unenviable reputation of drinking more wine than was good 
for him. He adhered nevertheless to his pledge, such as it was, 
with scrupulous fidelity. Nobody said he was a drunkard ; though 
he often returned at unseasonable hours from his social suppers, 
with a swimming brain and an unsteady step. Peggy w^as not as 
happy, with all her fine things around her, as when she was the 
first chorister in Cricketville, or when she commenced her unosten- 
tatious career, with the little cracked sideboard, and the Kidder- 
minster carpet, and those cane-bottom chairs. No — Peggy was not 
so light-hearted now. As Mary McGuire expressed it, ‘ She was 
not the swaat-tempered leddy that she had been.’ Mr. Lane’s 
business had not prospered of late, as much as in former years. 
Competitors had arisen all around him, and a store had been opened, 
in the adjoining building, whose plate-glass windows, vastly larger 
than his own, attracted the admiration of all beholders. The flirta- 
tion between uncle Saul and Mrs. Freetattle, amounted to nothing. 
All recollection of it passed off with the fumes of the India wine ; 
and, in a few months, uncle Saul, whose habits of migration had 
become inveterate, returned to South India, and died, the following 
year, in Madras. 

“ The first question, after the intelligence of his decease arrived, 
was not — did he die a Christian ? — but, has he left a will ? How 
much did he leave ? — who are his devisees ^ Mr. Lane cherished 
a strong impression, that his wife had not been forgotten, by her 
wealthy uncle. There had never been an occasion upon which the 
receipt of a few thousand dollars would have been more acceptable. 
His affairs had fallen into some disorder. While he and Mrs. Lana 
were discussing this important subject, Mrs. Freetattle suddenly 

VOL. II. 28 


S26 


TEMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


bounced into the room — ‘ Good news ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ good news 
for you both ! Gropple, the attorney, says he drew your uncle 
Saul's will, and has it now in his possession : he made it, just before 
he went away to Madras ; and, after a few legacies of no great 
importance, he has left the whole residue of his property to Mrs. 
Margaret Lane. There ’s for you ! Did n’t I tell you so ?’ — Mr. 
Lane had gone to the sideboard and taken out the decanter — ‘ For 
pity’s sake, Mr. Lane,’ said his wife, with an expression of anxious 
displeasure, ‘ don’t drink any more wine to-day ; you ’ve drunk half 
a dozen glasses already at dinner !’ — ‘ One bumper, Mrs. Lane,’ he 
replied, ‘ to the memory of your excellent uncle.’ Those endearing 
epithets, which had been employed, during the humbler and happier 
period of their married life, had given place to a more cold and 
formal style of address. — ‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Lane, ‘ my uncle 
was very kind to make his will in our favor, and I truly hope, 
whatever may be received, will be so placed, that it cannot be squan- 
dered.’ — ‘ I hope so too,’ said her husband, with evident asperity ; 
‘ but really, Mrs. Lane, if we have gotten into embarrassment, it is by 
your uncle’s means, as I understand it ; and it is but right he should 
help us out of it.’ — ‘ My uncle Saul got you into your embarrass- 
ment! why, what do you mean, Mr. Lane?’ — ‘ Why I mean neither 
more nor less than this — when we were married, four years ago, 
we began, as we ought to begin, in a plain, frugal manner ; and, had 
I consulted my own pleasure, we should have gone on as we began ; 
and my business would have afforded us a handsome support. But 
your uncle Saul took it into his head to send you a curse, in the 
shape of that 'silver pitcher. Then you discovered, that the old 
sideboard would not answer, and I was obliged to get a new, and a 
vastly more expensive one.’ — ‘Mr. Lane, how unjust you are,’ 
exclaimed his wife ; ‘ did I ask you to do it ? did n’t you say your 
business was so good, that you could afford it very well?’ — ‘ No 
such thing,’ said Mr. Lane. ‘ After you got the sideboard, the 
chairs would not answer ; and I must get new ones. After you got 
the chairs, the carpet would not answer ; and I must get a new 
carpet. After I got the carpet, the room would not look as it ought 
to, without pier-tables ; so I got pier-tables. After I got pier-tables, 
you must have a sofa. After I got the sofa, your fancy must be 
gratified with a centre-lamp. And so I have been driven along, in 
this career of folly and extravagance, until the house would not hold 
all the trumpery, that has been bought, from time to time, and so I 
was obliged to take a new, and a larger house. I consider Mrs. 
Freetattle as a friend of the family, and I say, before her, as I wmuld 
before you, that ray affairs are embarrassed. The banks will give 


lEMPERANCE MEETING IN TAITERTOWN. 


327 


me no assistance ; and, if I don’t get relief somewhere, I must give 
up, that ’s all. Now I consider, as I said before, that your uncle 
Saul got us into the scrape, and it is but fair he should help us 
out of it.’ — ‘ Dear Mr. Lane,’ sai(LMr^ Freetattle, ‘ don’t talk so, 
I entreat you ; you see your poOr wife is in tears.’ — ‘Well,’ said 
Mr. Lane, rising and taking his hat, ‘ I ’ll go to my store, and 
wrangle with my creditors, for I dare say some of them are there ; 
and I ’ll leave you and Mrs. Lane to plan some safe way to dispose 
of her uncle Saul’s money, so that it may not he squandered.’’ 
These last words were the same, unfortunately used by Mrs. Lane, 
and which had chiefly produced this ebullition of ill-temper, strangely 
tinctured, as it was, with the spirit of truth. 

“ ‘ Oh my dear Mrs. Freetattle,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lane, after her 
husband had left the room, ‘ for nearly two years he has been get- 
ting cross, just as you see, ever since he got into the way of drink- 
ing wine freely ; and, sometimes, his manners are so harsh, that I 
heartily wish myself at home with my father.’ — ‘ Well, my dear,’ 
said Mrs. Freetattle, ‘ I suppose it is partly occasioned by trouble 
about his affairs, and he was vexed, I dare say, by that suggestion 
of yours, about making any other use of the money you are to 
receive by your uncle Saul’s will, than relieving your husband from 
his embarrassment. But I ’ve no doubt, my dear, you will receive 
enough to pay off all his debts, and have a handsome sum invested 
for your own use, in case of accident.’ — ‘ I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Lane 
— and she wept bitterly — ‘ I would give him every cent of it, if he 
would give up his habit of drinking, which always makes him talk 
so sharply to me. But what are we to do about the will ?’ — ‘ Law- 
yer Gropple says,’ replied Mrs. Freetattle, ‘ that it must be proved 
here, and a certified copy must be sent out to India. He means to 
write a note to Mr. Lane, inviting him to call at the office, and look 
at the will.’ 

“ Mr. Lane, in due time, was made acquainted with the contents 
of the will ; and found, that, after the bequest of some small sums 
in legacies, and, among them, five hundred dollars to his friend, 
Mrs. Felicia Freetattle, for the purchase of a Cashmere shawl, the 
color to be selected by herself, the entire residue was left to his 
beloved niece, Mrs. Lane, without restriction or limitation. Mr. 
Lane, very naturally, made the public, in general, and his creditors, 
in particular, acquainted with the very agreeable prospect, which 
lay before him. 

“ Colonel Saul Picket had obtained a very large estate, in South 
India, in exchange for the liver complaint, of which, exacerbated, 
ao doubt, by his liberal habits of living, he ulti.iiately died. He 


328 


TEMPffivANCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


was one of those — and such there are — who derive a high degree 
of satisfaction from a prospective contemplation of his wealth, as.it 
were, beyond the grave. In other words, that which, tp a great 
many, perhaps to the majority of mankind, is an operation full of 
needless solemnity and awe, was to him particularly agreeable — to 
be more explicit, he was never more agreeably employed than when 
making his last will and testament. Upon his occasional returns to 
America, he indulged himself in this species of recreation ; no less 
than four last wills of Colonel Saul Picket were offered for probate 
in four different states of the Union. The annunciation of another 
last will had three times already alarmed Mrs. Freetattle for the 
security of her Cashmere shawl. But the will in possession of Law- 
yer Gropple proved, as he assured her, to be the very last will and 
testament of Colonel Saul Picket. In due form of law it was proved 
and allowed, and Greedy Gropple, Esquire, appointed executor. 
Copies, duly attested, were forwarded to Madras, by two vessels, 
lest some casualty might happen to one of them, — and, by both con- 
veyances, Mrs. Freetattle wrote, signifying that she had selected a 
white Cashmere. After a lapse of very many months, during which 
the creditors of Mr. Lane had become exceedingly impatient, intel- 
ligence was received from Mr. Gropple’s correspondent in Madras, 
that there existed another last will, made about a week before the 
colonel died, in which he had bequeathed to his well-beloved niece, 
Mrs. Margaret Lane, fifty rupees, to purchase a mourning ring, 
with a particular request, that the ring might be selected by Mrs. 
Felicia Freetattle ; and the rest of his estate, which was said to be 
immense, he had left to a lady in South India, to whom he was 
engaged. 

“ The shock, produced by this intelligence, may be more easily 
imagined than described. Its first practical effect appeared, in the 
form of four writs of attachment upon the property of Mr. Lane, 
which were served, the evening of the day when the information 
arrived. Judy Jiggle said she always knew it would come to this. 
The Miss Pickflaws were very desirous of being informed, if Mrs. 
Freetattle had decided on the color of her Cashmere shawl. Mr. 
Lane turned in all directions for relief, but utterly in vain. If the 
plague-spot had been upon him, he would not have been more studi- 
ously avoided by his friends. His wife, after the first shock was 
over — a burning flush of inexpressible surprise and offended pride 
— one full flood of streaming tears — speedily recovered her self- 
possession. Coming out of her chamber, she encountered her hus- 
band, the very image of rage and despair, his face miserably flushed, 
and his hand upon his burning brow. She sprang towards him, 


TEMPERA5VCE MEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


3ii9 


and, forgetting all his recent ill-treatment in his present misery, she 
threw her arms about his neck and exclaimed, ‘ Dear A.rchy,’ — an 
epithet unused of late, — ‘ we can be just as happy as we ever were 
in our lives. We have no children, for whose sake we might be 
tempted to lament over the loss of property. If you, my dear hus- 
band, will only resolve to give up one single habit, we can go and 
live, upon very little, in Cricketville.’ — ‘ Live in Cricketville ' 

Live in ’ He paused, stamping his foot upon the floor with 

violence, and slapping his forehead. How he would have filled this 
blank, in that moment of desperation, I know not. His poor little 
wife recoiled back into a chair, and, burying her face in her hands, 
gave way to a flood of scalding tears. — ‘Live on a little!’ he 
exclaimed, after a moment’s pause ; ‘ I am utterly stripped ; and 
when all this accursed trumpery has been sacrificed under the ham- 
mer, or rather the hatchet, cf the auctioneer, there will still remain 
a debt, which I never can pay, hanging like a millstone about my 
neck, and dragging me down to the end of my wretched existence.’ 
— ‘ Oh, Archy,’ said his wife, ‘ don’t give way to your feelings in 
this way. Priscy Millet — Jerry Bustler’s wife, I mean — says, as 
I have heard, that she never was half so happy in her life as she is 
at present. She looks back and laughs at her silly dreams of high 
life, and is engaged in the Sunday School, and occupies her 
thoughts about many better things than those foolish visions, which 
once seemed to be" the chief end of her existence. My father told 
me, the last time he was here, that she was not ashamed to dress 
herself in the plainest manner, and that she occupied her old place 
among the singers, on the Sabbath, where, you know, 1 used to sit, 
the first time you ever saw me, Archy. It seems strange, indeed, 
that father; when he was last here, about two months ago, should 
have said, in a manner seemingly between jest and earnest, that we 
might be unfortunate ourselves, one of those days; “and then, 
Peggy, my child,” said he, “ remember, we shall have houseroom 
.and heartroom for you both, in our humble way.” Now do, dear 
Archy, do let us go and live in Cricketville, and look for happinesjs 
in a different direction ; for I am perfectly sure it does not lie in the 
one we have been pursuing.’ 

“ Mr. Lane scarcely replied to this touching exhortation of his 
v/ife, but continued to sit in silence, as though he were unconscious 
of her presence. His friends, as I have stated, had been tried, in 
this period of affliction, and were found wanting. Even Mrs. Free- 
tattle, influenced partly by a feeling of mortification on her own 
account, and partly, perhaps, by a consciousness of having, however 
innocently, contributed to lead her young friends into that career of 

VOL. II. 28* 


330 


TEMPERANCE IMEETING IN TATTERTOWN. 


extravagance and folly, which had just terminated so unhappily, — 
even she suffered several days to pass, before she presented herself 
at the house of Mrs. Lane. ‘Ah, my dear,’ said she, as she 
entered the parlor, ‘ what an awful thing it is! Who C(yuld have 
expected itl Who is that vulgar-looking man, walking about the 
house with his baton, my dear T — ‘That,’ said Mrs. La.ne, ‘ is the 
sheriff’s officer, or keeper, who is left here to see that no part of the 
furniture is taken away.’ — ‘Oh heavens! how shocking!’ cried 
Mrs. Freetattle. ‘ I, just now, met your woman, Mary McGuiie, 
going, as I supposed, to the intelligence office, in search of a new 
place.’ — ‘ 1 suspect not,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘ Two of our domestics 
have asked for their wages, and, finding Mr. Lane could not pay 
them, have quitted. I know not for what object Mary has gone 
out, but I am sure it is not for the one you suggest. I told her, 
yesterday, we should be obliged to break up, and resign everything 
we possessed ; and that she had better be looking after another situ- 
ation. “ It ’s not myself that ’ll be laaving ye, poor leddy,” said 
she, “ in the dee o' your throuble, sin I ’ve aten your brid i’ the 
dee o’ your prosperity.” I told her we had no money to pay wages 
to anybody. “ 1 ’ll not be laaving ye, leddy,” said she. She may 
have altered her mind, however.’ — ‘ I have no doubt she has, my 
dear,’ said Mrs. Freetattle ; ‘ for I am certain I saw her going in 
the direction of Mrs. Botherem’s intelligence office.’ 

“ It was not long before Mary herself came into the parlor upon 
some errand, and Mrs. Freetattle asked her if she had not been to 
the intelligence office ; Mary replied, though with evident embar- 
rassment, that she had not. ‘ There !’ exclaimed Mrs. Freetattle ; 
‘ did n’t you see how she colored ? She ’s deceiving you, my dear, 
you may rely upon it ; and I should n’t be surprised, if she left you 
to-morrow morning.’ She had scarcely uttered these prophetic 
words, when Mary reappeared at the door, and, saying to Mrs. 
Lane, ‘An ye plase, my leddy, I ’ll be shpaking t’ ye,’ immediately 
retired. — ‘ I told ye so,’ said Mrs. Freetattle ; ‘ it ’s always just so 
with the Irish ; they think it perfectly right to deceive a heretic ; 
she ’.s going to give you warning, my dear.’ — ‘ She has always 
been faithful ; I cannot believe it,’ said Mrs. Lane, as she rose to 
go, begging Mrs. Freetattle to excuse her for a few moments only. 

“It was so long before Mrs. Lane returned, that her friend was 
almost tempted to depart, and was drawing on her glove, when 
Mrs. Lane reentered the apartment, applying her handkerchief to 
her eyes, and having evidently been in tears. ‘ I have had quite a 
dispute with that girl,’ said she. — ‘ I knew it would be so !’ cried 
Mrs. Freetattle ; ‘ about her wages, I suppose.’ — ‘ Yes, it was about 
her wages,’ replied Mrs. Lane. — ‘An ungrateful hussy !’ said Mrs. 


I'EMPERANCE MEETING IN TATTEKTOWN. 33’ 

Freetattle ; ‘ but I told you so, my dear ; just what I expected ; 
and so she told a falsehood about not going to Mrs. Botherem’sl’ — 
* No, no ; you mistake the matter entire/y, Mrs. Freetattle,’ said 
Mrs. Lane. ‘ She has not been to the intelligence office, but to the 
savings bank, and drawn out all her wages. And said she to me, 
“ Ye know I ’ve naather kith nor kin to care for, my leddy; my 
forbears are anunder boord. I s’posed my little bit airnings wud a 
bin o’ sarvice to poor Phelim O’Shane ;■ but poor, daar lad, the 
faver took him out o’ this blaak, cauld warld, and it ’s not myself 
that ’ll iver be thinking o’ ony other than Phelim. And now, poor, 
daar leddy, take the siller yoursel ; for y’ ave naad o’ it, and I have 
none.” I should have returned to you before, but I haA'^e been dis- 
puting with poor Mary McGuire, as you said, about her wages, but 
not in the manner you supposed.’ — ‘ Well,’ said Mrs. Freetattle, 
‘ that exceeds anything I ever heard of. I must tell that to the 
Miss Pickflaws, if it ’s only to see how they will explain it. I ’ve 
no doubt that they will account for her conduct in some very satis- 
factory manner, and show plainly enough the selfish motive at the 
bottom.’ 

“ I have never entertained the slightest doubt, that Mr. Lane, 
had he not, at that period, been addicted to a paralyzing habit, would 
have applied the energies of his body and mind, and successfully 
withal, to the restoration of his affairs. The withdrawal of all con- 
fidence, on the part of those^ who might have assisted him, in his 
efforts, for the attainment of that object, was occasioned by the con- 
viction, that he was already a man of intemperate, and not merely 
of extravagant habits, and therefore utterly untrustworthy. As it 
was, however, he was accounted, like Ephraim, a man given unto 
idols, and it seemed to be the common consent of the respectable 
members of the community to let him alone. Whenever an indi- 
vidual, under this wretched infatuation, into whose soul the iron 
power of intemperance has entered, falls into similar misfortune, his 
efforts to rise are frequently rendered ineffectual, by that feeling of 
distrust, which follows him like his very shadow, until he turns back 
from his miserable career, and furnishes unequivocal evidence of 
thorough amendment. 

“ I perceive, however, that it is getting late, and it is proper, that 
this simple narrative of facts should be brought to a close. I will 
no longer pursue it in detail. IMr. Lane’s effects were sold on execu- 
tion, and, among them, that fatal pitcher, which, as is usual in such 
cases, was knocked off at its mere value by weight. His wife, 
who was most truly attached to her husband, after one brief year 
of great privation, aggravated by the sad conviction, that his habits 
of intemperance were thoroughly confirmed, returned to her father ; 


382 


TEMPERANCE MEETINC IN TATTERTOWN. 


and, not lon^ after, fell into a decline. She did not live to witness 
the consummation of his miserable career. Cheaper and more fiery 
inebriants ere long took the place of unattainable and more costly 
wines. Of course, he disregarded his pledge of abstinence from 
ardent spirits, after he had added his own to the example of thou- 
sands, to demonstrate its utter insignificancy, as a preventive of 
drunkenness. He was reduced to the very lowest stage of drunken 
degradation, when I saw him last, which is several years ago. 
Thus you perceive the influence of remote causes, whether oper- 
ating in the form of a splendid silver pitcher, or, as our friend, the 
squire, has told you, a runlet not more than three inches long. I 
know not if Lane be living or dead.” — “ Dead as a door nail,” 
exclaimed a deep, hollow voice ; and all eyes were turned upon a 
tall personage, with a pale countenance, and sunken eyeballs — 
“ dead as a hammer. He wandered about the country, and once, 
when he was dreadful blue, he undertook, for a wager, to jump off 
the top of a mill, into the pond, and fell on a sharp stake, and that’s 
the way he died. I was then as bad as he, every bit and grain, but 
I ’m thankful I ’ve reformed. I take no intoxicating drink now. I 
read an account of a drunkard, who said, as he was going home, 
‘ If my wife ’s gone to bed and has n’t got some supper ready, I ’ll 
lick her ; and if she ’s setting up a burning out my wood and candles, 
I ’ll lick her,’ — well, I ’ra that very man. I remember just when 
was I said them very words. I know, as much, I guess, about 
this temperance concern, as anybody. Everything ’s been done 
wrong, till the reformed drunkards took up the thing their own 
way. Nothing ’s been done by anybody but us. Moral suasion ’s 
the thing. The law ’s o’ no sort o’ use. Ye can’t drive folks. 
We want nothing but moral suasion.” — “ That’s it,” cried Mr. 
Greedy, the grocer. — “I hav’ n’t heerd so much good, ginivine, 
common sense, this whole evening,” exclaimed Mr. Killem, “ as 
that are gentleman ’s jest expressed ; and I beg leave, now I ’m up, 
to give some folks a piece o’ my mind. Sir, I — I am for liberty. 

Our fathers fought, bled, and ” “ My friends,” said the Rev. 

Mr. Moose, “ if Mr. Killem will give way, for a moment, it is now 
manifestly too late to discuss this interesting question, the expe- 
diency of employing moral suasion, without any resort to the law, 
as the only means of advancing the temperance reform. I propose, 
if it be agreeable to all parties, that we now adjourn, to meet in this 
place one week from this date, at six o’clock, P. M., it being under- 
stood, that Mr. Killem has the floor.” 

This proposition was received with universal approbation ; and, in 
a few moments, the congregation began to separate. Squire Periwig 
remaining to assist the sexton in Mowing out the candles. 





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